


Hubris

by Lord_Twinkle



Category: Cursed (TV 2020), Cursed - Thomas Wheeler
Genre: Anal Sex, Bad BDSM Etiquette, Canon-Typical Violence, Dissociation, Dubious Consent, Eventual Smut, Explicit Language, Flashbacks, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Kink Negotiation, M/M, Misunderstandings, Oral Sex, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Under-negotiated Kink
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-26
Updated: 2020-11-09
Packaged: 2021-03-06 14:47:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 27,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26130637
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lord_Twinkle/pseuds/Lord_Twinkle
Summary: Hubris in the Ancient Greek sense of the word: the use of violence to shame a victim.Aristotle, from Rethoric: “As for the pleasure some seem to find in hubris, its cause is this: naive men think that by ill-treating others they make their own superiority the greater.”The truth is this: there cannot be true courage without there having been shame and vulnerability.Or an exploration of Lancelot's victimization and the struggle to retake his narrative.
Relationships: Gawain | The Green Knight/The Weeping Monk | Lancelot (Cursed)
Comments: 42
Kudos: 168





	1. Doubt

**Author's Note:**

> I'm complete utter trash for the pairing of Gawain and Lancelot, so here goes nothing.
> 
> Also, just in case this may bother someone out there, in the following chapters, Lancelot will not lose his faith. But there will be some major fucking adjustments in morals and perspectives. 
> 
> As per usual, English is not my first language. Apologies for any mistakes and long winded sentences.
> 
> Tags may change as I build this thing.
> 
> Music inspiration for this chapter: Send Me a Vision by Boy Harsher; #1 Crush by Garbage; My Body Is a Cage by Arcade Fire

Once inside the tent, he ignored the furious beating of his heart and carefully began stripping off his equipment until he was left with nothing but his trousers. He fell in front of the altar, shaking and tears streaming down his face, mixing in with the ash streaks. A rare display of emotion for him.

He had been a faithful servant for over two decades now. He had done everything Father Carden asked of him - let his heart be broken again and again by the actions he took until he was numb, let the pain build a house in his soul to make up for the failings of his existence. He gave and gave and gave until there was seemingly nothing left of him.

The only thing he had ever wanted in return was for the Almighty to send him a sign. To show him that he was on the right path. However, none had ever presented itself to him. All before him was only darkness.

And now, in this moment, when it seemed the Red Paladins victory was assured - the Green Knight at their mercy, the Fey almost obliterated with nowhere left to hide, and the Wolf-Blood Witch within their grasp - all things he had helped achieve, the Weeping Monk could not help but feel the familiar fingers of shame and sin curl around his throat.

The Green Knight had seen right through him. Had felt his doubt and accused him of all the things the Monk had kept in his heart like a wound. Things the Paladins had told him he should be proud of. But he knew, there was no coming back from all the people he had killed, all the children he had orphaned.

He had done it for their salvation, he repeated to himself over and over. If he didn’t, they would all burn in Hell. All of them. And wasn’t all the blood on his hands worth it if it meant they would be saved in the after life? But the guilt he carried sometimes perked up its ugly head demanding if he was unequivocal about that.

“You parrot their words, but you know it’s all lies. I can feel it in you, my brother. They have turned your mind so far inside out that you don’t know the difference between kindness and hate. Who did this to you?”

It echoed in his mind along with the image of the terrified Fey boy being dragged off to the Kitchens.

His jaw throbbed where Father Carden had hit him for daring to speak up. And worse, for asking for mercy.

Mercy. He knew nothing of it. But pain? That, the Monk could understand.

He would need the pain now, as a dangerous thought had slithered its way into the Monk’s mind. What if the Knight was the sign he had been waiting for? The much awaited Angel sent to deliver a message from the Almighty? The proof that his current path was the wrong one?

But, Angels are never gentle, like the knight’s voice had been. They are terrible and their voices thunder inside the mind leaving only cracks, clarity and pain.

He lashed his back hoping it would carve the doubt right out of his flesh.

Nothing quieted his mind.

***  
Father Carden entered the tent. His displeasure was obvious to anyone who could see past the quiet beatific expression he kept up.

“You ignore my summons”, he admonished.

The Monk spoke, as if he were unhearing of his father’s reprimand.

“His grace. I cannot feel it” he shuddered, “I call out to him… I reach out and there is only darkness.”

The Father let out a sigh and moved to the other side of the altar, facing his son.

“You are the avenging sword of light in pitched battle against the Lord of darkness. Did you think you could escape his touch? His corruption? The Beast does not tear the flesh, it tears the soul.”

“Do you love me, Father?”, the Monk blurted out. He had not meant to ask this. But he desperately needed to hear the answer. He knew he was not worthy of love, but a man of the Church surely was not above caring for the lowliest of God’s creatures. Was he?

A long silence ensued. A silence that confirmed something the Monk had refused to acknowledge in all this time. Something broke inside of him.

“Of course I do”, came the shallow answer.

The knight’s voice whispered in his mind: “If you are truly one of them, if they are your brothers, then tell them.”

“Even if I am damned?”, he dared.

“Those are dangerous words”

The Monk knew those were dangerous words. That is why he had needed to utter them. He needed to hear his father confirm that all these years of serving him had been for naught. That his father hated him and that he had used him to achieve his ends. That the grief and doubt he carried had always been his best guides. Not Carden.

Father Carden rounded the table and sat above him, the picture of judge, jury and executioner.

“We will speak of this one last time. You were demon-born. An abomination in the eyes of God. But I spared you from the fire because you could sense your own kind. I gave you scripture. I gave you discipline. I forged you into one of our sharpest blades. I turned you against your Maker. And I laid the first brick on your road to salvation”. He leaned forward so that he could look the Monk in the eye and continued in a measured tone, “but I cannot walk the road for you my son. I cannot save you from the flames. You have to have the will to do what is necessary. Do you have the will my son?”

The Monk set his jaw, determined.

“Yes, Father.”

Father Carden was right. He must do what is necessary. Although the plan that took shape within the Monk’s mind was the furthest from what Father Carden had taught him, this road was his and his alone.

He knew what he had to do.

***  
Several hours later, he was bludgeoned and bleeding within an inch of his life. But the small Fey boy was sitting in front of him on Goliath and it was well worth all of his blood. For the first time in a long while, he had no regrets about the lives he had taken that night.

He clung to the boy protectively. Nothing would make him let go of him until he was safe with his own people. This he swore to himself. Certainty, at last... and in the last place he had expected it.

“What is your name boy?”, he asked, his lungs straining to carry enough air to make a sound.

“It’s Squirrel.”

“A squirrel is an animal”, he couldn’t help a small smile. “What name were you given?”

The boy hesitated.

“I don’t like that name”

“It is still your name”, the Monk encouraged.

“Fine”, he huffed, “it’s Percival.”

“Percival”, he repeated. The shapes of a language spoken across the sea and that he had long given up to the recesses of his mind now taking reforming: Percival - He who pierces the valley… it definitely suited him.

“What about you? Do you have a real name?”, Percival inquired.

For a moment, there was only white noise within him. As though he had never had any name but the Weeping Monk. But the fog parted slightly and allowed him to remember a small village tucked on a mountain, a gaggle of children with ash markings on their faces, and the voice of a woman calling after him.

“Lancelot. A long time ago, my name was Lancelot.”


	2. Worthy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lancelot and Percival make a pit stop in the King's camp. They pick up a newly resurrected Gawain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is a LOT longer than the first one. I have no sense of pacing. Sorryyyyy
> 
> Again, English is not my first language, go easy on me.
> 
> Music inspiration: Broken Crown from Mumford and Sons; Pain by Boy Harsher

Dawn found them passing near King Uther’s camp.

Lancelot had been working hard on preventing himself from passing out from sheer exhaustion and loss of blood. He had to admit, the overwhelming smell of blood and charred Man-blood flesh did wonders in preventing that by making his stomach lurch with nausea. Squirrel was alert, carefully looking around them for any sign of movement, and uncharacteristically quiet. Lancelot’s heart gave a pang of sorrow as he could smell the boy’s nervousness. No child should have to live like this. He knew the blame was all his to shoulder, but his self-loathing would have to wait.

In normal circumstances, he would never have ventured close to such a large enemy camp. It didn’t take a genius to surmise that it was suicide, even if Lancelot had been in peak condition. Yet, here they were. Something in the camp felt off and he had smelled it from miles away. On top of the general odor of the battlefield, Lancelot could smell something that he could only describe as burning sap, metal in fusion, and thunder splitting rocks. It left a taste of ozone and salt in his mouth, which he was fairly certain did not come from the blood he spat out intermittently. He had experienced these sensations only a few times, and it always led to the same person: the Wolf-blood Witch.

He was uncertain of what they would find at the source, but they may find a clue on the whereabouts of the Fey Queen, her fate, or even a lead on where to find the other Fey. In any case, it was better than nothing.

The camp was eerie. Bodies, both King’s guard and Red Paladin, lay strewn between the tents until they turned a corner to see a large tent with a radius of pure destruction around it. Nothing was left standing - the tents and bodies of those who were at the wrong place at the wrong time, flattened and pressed into the ground.

Lancelot deeply regretted bringing Percival along to investigate by now. But he could hardly turn back as he had picked up on a new smell. Like young oak and slightly of thyme. And unmistakably Fey.

He stopped Goliath at the edge of the circle and carefully let himself slip off the saddle. His rib cage screamed in protest and he had to take a few moments, hands firmly planted on the horse’s croup, to clear the flash of white in his vision. He brought his hand to his side mechanically. It came up sticky and red. A small hand slipped on top of the one steadying him broke him out of his torpor and he looked up to see worry on Percival’s face. He kicked himself mentally and helped the boy climb down.

“Stay close to me”, he said in hushed whispers, “and no heroics. If something goes wrong, if someone attacks us, you run straight for Goliath, leave this camp and don’t look back.”

He made sure his tone left no room for discussion. He knew Percival was very good at breaking rules. But he could not afford to put the child in anymore harm’s way. His heart would not bear it.

The child’s eyebrows knit together in disapproval, but he nodded firmly.

They made their way to the untouched tent slowly. Partly to assess the danger and partly because Lancelot’s legs felt like they were moving in water. Everything was so still, it was as if even the wind had taken its leave from this place. Not even a bird circling in the sky or a fly buzzing around the easy meal that was a battlefield. The Monk did not like this.

Yet, something in the encroaching smell of oak was oddly comforting.

When they entered the tent, he was utterly unprepared to find the Green Knight laying on a soft bed of grass in its middle. Percival gasped and practically threw himself to the knight’s side before Lancelot could react. The child fussed over him, Lancelot saw his every move, but he was frozen in place. He had never thought to see the man again.

Lancelot suddenly came to the realisation that someone was yelling at him. He sluggishly looked at the source, until the words came into focus.

“Lancelot! _Lancelot_!! Help me! We have to wake him up. He’s still alive.”

This brought back the notion of motion to Lancelot’s limbs and he made quick work of closing the distance to the man on the floor, pressing a hand to his still bleeding side and gritting his teeth as he sat down to examine him.

His pulse was steady, and when he lifted his unbruised eyelid, he could see movement. One thing worried him: while his heart was definitely beating, he wasn’t breathing.

He sat back on his haunches, eyes wide and hands grabbing for answers that would not present themselves.

“I don’t understand. He’s supposed to be dead. He should be _very_ dead.”

Squirrel, ever so practical, replied: “Well he’s clearly not.” He added in a pleading tone: “We _have_ to take him with us.”

“Do not worry, little one. Leaving him here is not in my intentions. I owe him too much for that.”

This seemed to ease some of the tension in Percival’s serious face.

“Do you think you can go get Goliath while I try to get him out of all this greenery?”

Percival nodded enthusiastically and scampered out the tent. Instants later, he heard the boy arguing with the enormous horse to get him to move. This should buy him enough time to assess the rest of the knight's condition.

He made quick work of lifting his tunic to inspect the multiple wounds he was all to aware the Green Knight had suffered. He found all of them closed and healed over nicely. Even the stab wound he had inflicted seemed like a distant memory on the man’s skin. Still, he was covered in bruises and more minor injuries were all too present, not to mention he was deathly pale and there was too much blood in the ground for Lancelot’s liking. He pressed and ear to his chest. He had thought maybe his breathing was too shallow to feel, but he could not hear the faintest rush of air inside the knight’s rib cage.

This would have to be a problem for later. For now, he ignored how his entire body ached and carefully slid an arm under the knight’s head. He expected to have to fight the greenery but it parted for him. At least, until he put a hand on the man’s chest. The grass lurched up his arm and kept him there while he furiously attempted to break contact. Not for the first time in his life, he felt like his body was not his own. He felt something ancient in the pit of his stomach. Something warm, like the coals in a hearth. It began smoldering, burning all the way up his throat. His treacherous body folded forward until his face was inches from the other man’s. Thick rolls of heavy smoke exited his mouth and his nostrils, hanging in the space between them.

Lancelot felt as if he were in a trance. Distant images from his previous life came knocking themselves in quick succession within his mind: a high priestess, a young girl on death’s bed, the smoke that had given her back her life, one of the gifts of his people.

The Green Knight took an enormous inhalation, engulfing the entirety of the smoke, and bolted upright.

***

The first thing he did was look at his hands. The second, he lifted his tunic and found only a scar where he had been bleeding profusely in what seemed only moments ago. Only then did he take in his surroundings, until his eyes landed on the Weeping Monk. He was clutching his hand hard against his chest and had so many emotions passing through his face it was hard to follow - shame, relief, disbelief, hurt. He noticed that his ashen marks were extremely stark against his pale cheeks and how incredibly young he looked now that he saw him without his hood.

“You”, Gawain tried to say before having a fit of coughs.

The Monk looked around and spotted a pitcher of water he quickly gave to the knight. He downed half of the pot before he gained back control of his breathing.

“By the Hidden… Why does the entirety of my body hurt”, he huffed.

That is when Squirrel decided to burst in. He basically tackled the knight into a tight embrace, ignoring the much too slow warning issued by the Monk: “Careful, Percival!”

He was surprised at the use of the name. So few knew Squirrel by any other.

He returned the boy’s fierce hug. “I thought you were dead”, Percival said between teary hiccups.

“Not going to lie kid, I’m pretty sure I was. But more importantly,” he untangled the child from his chest to take a better look at him, “how did you get out of the Paladins’ camp?”

Curiously, he found that he already knew. A downpour of memories that were not his surged through him. He witnessed the Weeping Monk grabbing Percival, fighting off the Trinity Guard, and falling to them in order to protect the boy.

He turned to face the Ashman: “You saved him”, he said with slight shock and a tinge of awe.

The Monk looked uncomfortable.

Squirrel launched into an explanation: “He did! And Lancelot was so good! He moved so fast, like lightning. I’m going to ask him if he’ll show me how to fight. You will, won’t you Lancelot?” Gawain couldn’t stop his mind from thinking Lancelot… what a pretty name for a pretty face. Squirrel continued: “You should have seen it! It took him no time at all to kill five Trini-whatevers. But then, there were way way too many. He would definitely have died if it wasn’t for my help. I threw a rock at the ugliest one and then picked up a sword and dared any of them to attack me.”

Gawain looked at Squirrel with a raised eyebrow. The boy did tend to embellish the facts to make for better tales.

“He’s telling the truth” the Monk said in a low voice, “I would not be standing here if it wasn’t for him.”

Gawain took a long hard look at him. “You’ve turned your back on everything you had for one small Fey boy”, he ignored Squirrel’s protest at the use of the word small, “Why?”

The monk sighed as he scrunched his eyebrows together, thinking. He would be a liar if he said that he didn’t know. Or at least, that he did not know part of the answer. His soul was heavy. And he knew it wasn’t because he was demon-born. It had become weightier over time, with each action that made him a little more guilty, a little more sorrowful. He would never be able to unburden himself from all he had done. But it didn’t mean he shouldn’t try. Not for his sake, but for that of the ones who were left.

But, he was unused to being asked to justify his actions. To voice anything at all actually. It took him some time to find his voice and he could not put his thoughts in so many words.

“I couldn’t let them hurt him”, came the simple answer. He hesitated before adding: “I… I couldn’t let them hurt anyone else.”

The Ashman gave him a meaningful look. It appeared that what he had told the Monk had stuck. He had meant it and it did not come from a place of desperation, even if he had known at that point that he would not survive the night.

“Well, Lancelot”, he said with a small smile, putting one of his large hands on his forearm, making him tense ever so slightly, “I can’t say I’m displeased, brother.”

It would take time for the Ashman to find his place in the world. Gawain would do his best to help him do so. He could not find it in himself to hate the person next to him, despite all his actions. He could see it. This one was worthy.

***

It’s only on their way out of the camp that he noticed him. Farther Carden. Or what was left of him. His vision tunneled. The only thing left in the world was a red robe and the detached head of the man who had been his father - both tormentor and protector. Lancelot dragged himself to the corpse and dropped to his knees. He put his hands together, bowed his head in prayer. He stopped himself before uttering the conventional may you rest in peace. Instead, he stared down the head’s cold dead eyes and vowed: “I was already damned when I met you. You promised me salvation, but instead you made it easier for me to become a monster. There is only one place for the sort of men we are. God willing, I’ll meet you there soon.”

Then, he began digging with the energy of desperation, not caring when his nails started to bleed and when his fingertips became numb.

He heard the others approach. Gawain knelt beside him with a painful huff and put his hand on his shoulder. The touch barely registered in the Monk’s mind. “We cannot stay here”, the Knight said delicately. Lancelot stopped abruptly. He looked at Gawain from under his eyelashes. The knight could see that his eyes were brimming with tears he refused to shed.

“I need to bury him”, he pleaded, “He did not love me. But, he is all I have.”

He clenched his fists and shuddered dangerously.

“He _was all_ I had...”

Squirrel immediately picked up a discarded helm and began digging.

Gawain gave Lancelot’s shoulder a squeeze.

“Alright, but we can only bury the head. Then, we need to move.”

Lancelot gave a small grateful nod.

***

When the deed was done, the monk got up and recovered Father Carden’s most valued and only possession from his body. He hesitated for a second, but made quick work of unfastening a Bible from his fathers tunic and hooked it to his own belt. He spared one last look to the overturned earth. Percival took his hand and guided him to where Gawain was waiting with Goliath and a mare he had found nearby.

The road ahead promised to be a hard one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!
> 
> Kudos are appreciated and let me know what you think if you feel like it.


	3. Delirium

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Squirrel, Gawain and Lancelot make their way to the Fey camp. Lancelot fall prey to his injuries. The fever that ensues brings fever dreams to torment him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bit of a warning for this one:  
> mentions of child abuse, rape and suicide.

The next thing Lancelot knew, he was sliding off Goliath’s back and landing hard into the dust, his shoulder making a gruesome  _ pop _ as he landed. The pain sent shockwaves through his right side like a crack making its way through ice. He thanked God the only sound he made was a faint wheezing. After the initial shock, he flopped to his back. The sky was strikingly blue. How peaceful. A bird flew lazy circles over his head, biding its time. If he could just sleep for a little…

The thought was interrupted by Gawain’s worried face blocking out the sun, making him look like all the secular art he’d seen in places of worship. He was so busy being totally entranced by the knight’s beauty that he barely noticed the man was talking to him, white noise invading his swimming mind.

“Lancelot? Can you hear me?”

He willed his addled consciousness to reply with a mechanical: “It’s nothin”, he kicked himself realising this was not in the realm of possible answers to the question.

Squirrel’s head came into view and he practically yelled: “It’s obviously not ‘nothing’, you complete utter oaf”, he softened. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

Careful hands slid under him. He reeled at the sensation, which only served to speckle his vision with white. The pains the hands were taking not to jostle him hurt more than any of the injuries he currently bore.

“You’ve lost a lot of blood”, Gawain realised as he inspected Goliath’s completely soaked coat where the Ashman had been leaning heavily. A pang of guilt struck him. He had been so preoccupied with checking on Squirrel and getting them back in one piece to the Fey camp, he hadn’t spared a moment to check on the ex-paladin. He realised now the other man had purposefully hidden his condition from him. “I’m sorry. I should have noticed you were hurt.”

"Stop", the monk hissed through gritted teeth. He pleaded, “just leave me here. Get the child to safety.”

He couldn’t help a groan escaping his mouth as his right shoulder left the earth and he was propped up in a sitting position.

“That’s not happening Ashman. You made a promise to see Percival delivered safely to our people and I will hold you to it.”

The boy in question knelt before the monk, grabbing his attention by putting his small hand on his chest, over his heart: “Lancelot, you can’t die. Do you hear me? We just became friends”, the use of the word  _ friends _ made Lancelot wince. “You also promised to show me how to fight, so it would be two promises broken just before your death. How would that hold up with your God?”

The man gave a huff that may have been a laugh, if you’d been paying close attention.

“I don’t remember making any such promise, but I see your point.”

Gawain took advantage of the distraction and moved fast, before the monk could realise what was happening, and set his shoulder back into place.

Lancelot made no sound, only breathed heavily, paled, and looked over to Gawain with murder written all over his face. “Apologies”, he offered genuinely, “do you think you can get up?”

He nodded, pushing his protesting limbs past their final limit. He stood shakily, took a step, and face planted.

The last thing he heard was Squirrel saying something about a stubborn idiot before the void took him in its tender embrace.

***

The void is not always kind. Lancelot knew something of tender embraces turned into violent reproaches.

His first fever dream was of the boy who had been his one and only friend. His first love.

_ They were barely pubescent then. The boy, Yates, began sitting next to him during prayer and meal times. No one ever did. He was demon-born, the other Red Paladins didn’t want the sin of his simple existence to rub off on them. But Yates still sat and, in time, even talked to him. _

_ Then came the conspiratorial looks and the open grins that made the Weeping Monk’s heart do something funny in his chest. _

_ He should have known, nothing good ever came from someone noticing him, or showing him kindness. _

_ It was only when Father Carden had brought the boy before him by the scruff of his neck, ordering him to lash his first love until there was nothing left of his back that the monk understood the extent of his mistake, of his sin: he should never have let the other boy kiss him, never have let him get close in the first place. When he was done, his father did the same to him. Afterwards, he knelt beside him and told him, disgust thick in his tone: “This is something I cannot protect you from, my son. Whatever happens next, remember this: you are not your own.” _

_ Yates never spoke to him again. Later, he heard that the young paladin had hung himself, heartbroken. News made it around camp that the Weeping Monk’s sins extended much further than his blood. And men found their way to the boys tent and used his body to assuage their own sins. _

***

He flowed between different levels of consciousness. The wounds he had so blatantly ignored came with the revenge of fire - he deserved to burn. And he was delirious. He could smell it on himself. It made him think of storms on the sea, the long lost songs of martyrs, broken bones, cruel smiles. 

This was not his first time at the edges of death's door, but the lucid dreaming had never been quite this bad.

Sometimes there were arms handling him with care. In which case, he was launched into the depths of his mind, where he was nothing but a stalk of a boy and a man with blue eyes cradled him, singing a lullaby in the quiet, rolling tones of the ashfolk. And he felt… safe? No, he was never safe. The panic usually strangled him back to a modicum of alertness. But it never lasted. He would go crashing back into the annals of his memories.

More often than not, his visions were parts of his life with the Paladin’s he had thought he’d locked up so tight in his psyche that they would never see the light of day again. But it seemed his most recent treason had made them surface, and they were furiously banging, wearing the door down. Some slipped through to present themselves to him in all their horror.

***

_ He stood in Father Carden’s study, a meek boy of six, barefoot on the cold stone floor. He had been with the Red Paladins for a year. _

_ “ _ _ Leviticus 26:7-9”, Father Carden demanded. _

_ The boy that had once been Lancelot uneasily shifted from one foot to the other before remembering. He treaded carefully: “You shall chase your enemies, and they shall fall before you by the sword. Five of you shall chase a hundred, and a hundred of you shall chase ten thousand, and your enemies shall fall before you by the sword. I will turn to you and make you fruitful and multiply you and will confirm my covenant with you.” _

_ “Good. Judges 20:48?” _

_ He retorted almost immediately: “And the men of Israel turned back against the people of Benjamin and struck them with the edge of the sword, the city, men and beasts and all that they found. And all the towns that they found they set on fire.” _

_ “Yes. Psalm 137:9.” _

_ He couldn’t remember. His mind reeled, grasping for any word that could have belonged to the excerpt. _

__

_ “I…” he began. _

_ Father carden circled him, a stick between his hands, patiently waiting for his student to recite the scripture he painstakingly made the boy memorize. _

_ “I can’t remember”, the boy said, so softly the words almost didn’t survive his mouth. _

_ “On your knees”, ordered the Father. The boy obeyed immediately. He knew it would only be worse if he hesitated. _

_ “Psalm 137:9: ‘ Blessed shall he be who takes your little ones and dashes them against the rock!’. Repeat it”, the man said it with such dangerous calm, it made Lancelot’s eyes water. _

_ For every word, the boy received double their weight in heavy wooden marks against his flesh. _

***

The man desperately clung to consciousness. Gawain was worried. They were still two days away from where it was rumoured the Fey had made camp. And he was no healer. They rode as fast as they could for as long as they could, Squirrel alone on the grey mare they had gotten from the King’s camp, keeping up as best he could, Gawain on Goliath, holding Lancelot upright against his chest.

When the Ashman would surface out of whatever visions the sickness brought him, he would mumble half coherent sentences and thoughts, things the knight was fairly certain Lancelot would have preferred to take to his grave. 

Some things would have made him smile if he hadn’t been so worried. Like when Lancelot went on a long rant - Gawain suspected he spoke more during that rant than he had in the past year - about a knight who was a saint. Sir Georges, he believes the man mumbled. The Ashman brokenly wondered if Gawain would be made a saint one day and went on listing his finer qualities. Better not to think too hard about that part. He went on and on about Sir Georges’ deeds. Was there a dragon in this story? He would have to ask later. He would make sure he  _ could _ ask later.

Other times, he said things that made Gawain’s heart sink so low, he didn’t think he’d ever find it again, or made him so angry he’d make oaths to every god he knew to eliminate any Red Paladin that ever dared to come across his path. On the first night, as they had finally settled to get some rest, Gawain thought the Ashman had finally given in to sleep when a soft whimper escaped him. Lancelot shot up, looking at his hands like they were the worst thing he’d ever laid eyes upon. Tears followed the inky streaks slowly down his face. 

“The emptiness of my home was more to bear than the corpses of everyone I knew lining the streets”, he began, clear but laboured, “and when they set it ablaze, I couldn’t salvage my soul from the embers.”

Gawain knelt beside him, placing a careful hand on his back. Lancelot jerked out of the touch and spun to face him, his eyes telling Gawain he was only half lucid. “Do not touch me with kindness, knight”, he spat out, making himself small. ”You have a massive soul that finds and fills dark places. But your kind heart, that divine thing, cannot fill all voids.” He took a shuddering breath, his face a complete mess of emotions, so unlike the carefully neutral expression he carried in his wake. Gawain remained silent, letting him work through whatever his fever addled brain needed to. “The rows upon rows of ghosts that follow me will tell you: everything I touch turns to ash.” With that, he slumped dangerously backwards. Gawain grabbed him before he could hit his head, made sure he was unconscious and bundled up his freezing body into his arms. He whispered:

“That is for me to decide.”

***

You can imagine the joy and relief that made its way through the Fey camp when their champion and Squirrel made it back to them. But it was short lived. The man and the boy were so exhausted they could barely stand, and they carried with them one of their many sources of nightmares. Although, at this precise moment, said nightmare couldn’t have lifted a finger if his life depended on it. 

As soon as Nimue appeared, also exhausted from her own ordeal from assumed dead to not so much, there were tears and hugs, and half logical explanations as to why Squirrel and Gawain brought with them the most dangerous man alive. Nevertheless, they were able to convey what the ex-paladin had done for them and that he needed help. They brought him to Pym while onlookers spat and cursed the monk under their breath. 

*** 

For the first time in a while, he surfaced shakily not to the jostling of a horse’s back or the cold hard ground of the road, but to a wooden table. He cracked an eye open to see a group of women standing around him. No, not women - Fates, Goddesses, a group of angelic Thrones come to render God’s justice - the Healer, the Widow, the Warrior, the Queen. He must still be hallucinating.

“Have you come for me?”, he whispered, his mouth like sandpaper. The many heads of the entity before him seemed to move as one, all eyes now on him.

The Widow’s stare seared through the black of her veil, through him, like his life could not hold any secrets from her. “‘Tis not your time yet”, she answered simply. 

“Good. You have a debt to repay, monk”, declared the Warrior. 

He lifted his head slightly, ignoring how the world tilted about like a boat on the ocean, to look at the Queen. She said nothing, but her eyes spoke of power, duty, and justice. Looking at her in this moment, her fingers interlaced in front of her, her hair braided long on her shoulders, and the tension that came with great responsibility, he felt a renewal of what he had lost in the Paladin’s camp that fateful night - purpose. He found himself making a promise: “I will make it right, or die trying.” She gave him a slow, solemn nod. 

The Healer pressed a cool hand to his burning brow: “Hush now. Rest.” And everything went dark again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos and comments are appreciated!


	4. Respite

When Lancelot woke, his fever had finally broken and he had regained a firm grasp on reality. And that reality told him that his body hurt.  _ A lot _ . He could also smell a few other people near him. One much closer than the others. He opened his eyes to see Squirrel, curled up against his side, under his arm, and dozing peacefully. He let a small smile grace his lips. He let his eyes wander to his right where Gawain was also sleeping, his breath coming evenly and his brows coming together sporadically. 

They had made it after all. No thanks to him, Lancelot had to remind himself.

Now that he was actually looking around, they were in a large tent with a row of beds. It smelled of herbs and something clean that made his nose curl. At one end of the tent was one of the women he had dreamed of - tall, dark-skinned, with tattoos gracing her sharp features and decidedly menacing. She was sitting in a chair, fletching arrows. Near the middle, close to the alchemist’s table was a tiny red-headed thing. He tried to get up on his elbows to have a better look, but only succeeded in emitting an awkward grunt.

“You’re awake!”, came the small voice of the redhead, several glass jars titillating at her brusk movement. The other woman stopped her chore and narrowed her eyes at him, jaw tight.

The redhead made her way to the left of his bed. Now that he got a better look at her, he recognized her as the healer in his dream. He was beginning to suspect it had been no dream at all. His mind scrambled to remember anything he might have done or said, but the gears in his brain were still addled. She spoke in a quiet voice, so as not to wake her two other charges: “How are you feeling?”

“Like I’ve been trampled by an army”, he said without hesitation.

The woman let out a soft snort: “You look like you’ve been trampled by an army. I’m Pym by the way and that very muscular lady at the back is Kaze.”

Introductions completed, she folded an arm across her chest and mechanically brought up a hand to rub her chin in a thinker’s pose.

“I’ve done everything I knew how to help your body heal, but while you were delirious, you wouldn’t let us take off your shirt or let me have a look at your back. You have several cracked ribs that need to be bandaged up if you want them to resettle in properly. If you’re up to it, I would like to do so now.”

Lancelot’s heart sank as he noticed several bruises on Pym’s arms and one on her lower cheek. He must have been thrashing. His first instinct was to refuse - the pain from the cracked ribs would serve to remind him of what he had done to this person who had done nothing but help him. But Squirrel shifted slightly against his side. He would be useless to the boy if he could not stand upright. So, he made a nod of approval. Pym gestured for the other woman to come and help her.

Kaze lifted the small body of the Fey boy and settled him in his own bed before moving next to the monk and none too delicately helped him up and unto Pym’s examination table. When he was settled as comfortably as his state allowed, Kaze stared him dead in the eyes and baring her fangs, she said: “If you hurt her, monk, I will visit on you ten fold what was done to her.” And with that she backed little ways away, never taking her eyes off of him, at the ready should he try anything. Pym looked at her go with the most bewildered expression he had ever seen.

He couldn’t blame the warrior. He was, for all intent and purposes, still their enemy. But hurting the redhead was the last thing he wanted.

***

Pym couldn’t say that she was thrilled at the idea of trying to bandage up the Weeping Monk for the second time in two days. The first time had been a horrible ordeal for all parties involved. But she was also worried that if she did not act quickly, his wounds would get infected and he would die a slow, painful death. While a deep, dark part of her did not mind that idea, she would not be able to bear the grief that would overtake Squirrel should anything happen to the man. Still, she was grateful for Kaze’s reassuring presence. Should anything go wrong, she would have her back.

She gathered her wits and took out a pair of scissors. The man before her, who seemed to already be tense by nature, wound up even further than a coil could at the mere sight of the tool.

She quickly explained: “Afraid I’m going to have to cut your shirt off. It’s pretty much ruined already and it’s gotten stuck in some of your wounds, and cutting it off will make it easier for me and less painful for you.”

The mortification on his features slowly made place for a carefully blank expression and he gave a resigned nod of compliance.

The healer merely hesitated for a second before raising her scissors and getting to work. Moments later, Lancelot’s chest and arms were fully exposed, bruises, patched up cuts and all. The only piece left covering his back, but it seemed to have merged with whatever wounds trailed the monk’s back.

Without warning - as Pym had learned with the raiders that it wasn’t always the best idea to tell a patient that something painful was about to happen - she tore the fabric, taking with it poorly healing scabs. In a quick succession of events, the monk let out a shocked yelp, which made Gawain wake with a start, and Pym took a step back with a gasp as she saw the state of her patient’s back, almost bumping into Kaze. Squirrel slept on without a worry in the world. 

***

Gawain bolted upright at the yell, all his combat instincts kicking in. When he realised where he was, he had a mind to throttle whomever had woken him from the first real sleep he had had since… well, since he died.

He got to his feet and stopped right in his tracks, taking in the scene unfolding in front of him. Sitting and facing him on the examination table, Lancelot was folded on himself, grabbing the table in a white knuckled clench. Behind him, Pym was looking a little pale, like she might be sick, while Kaze simply looked stunned. Both of them had so many emotions flashing through their faces it was dizzying - doubt, anger, concern.

“Lancelot?”, all eyes suddenly landed on him. Pym seemed to regain her composure and began gathering gauze, disinfectant, and salves before moving back to her patient.

“Lancelot?”, she said, “I’m going to start cleaning up your wounds alright?”

The ex-paladin gave no answer, the slightest tremble was coursing through his body. Gawain could see he was desperately trying to regain control by the tension in his shoulders. Having given her warning, Pym delicately started cleaning the mess. 

Gawain circled the table and finally saw what had caused the commotion. Lancelot’s entire skin was covered in lash marks. Some were long jagged awful things. Others were faded white like lightning strikes.  _ By the Hidden _ layers upon layers of them. Gawain’s mind spiraled. He couldn’t stop thinking about how much blood there must have been, how much blood there was right now.

Pym gave him the ‘pull yourself together’ look and gestured for him to do something. The man was obviously extremely uncomfortable, to say the least. He looks so small and thin, such a contrast to the man who stabbed him only a week ago.

Gawain slowly rounded the table, making himself as non-threatening as possible. He pulled a chair to sit lower than him.

“Lancelot?”, he asked again.

His gaze was fixed somewhere far away. Gawain carefully unclenched Lancelot’s hands from the wooden table and kept them inside his own. Lancelot’s eyes moved slowly from their hands to Gawain’s face. But, he was still unfocused. Tears were slowly rolling down his cheek. 

Gawain gave a tired sigh. He knew Lancelot wouldn’t remember much of this. He recognised that look. He often saw it on soldiers who had seen too much. So, he opted for rubbing circles on his hands and telling him silly stories from his childhood.

When Pym was finally done wrapping his ribs, Lancelot was so drained that his eyes could hardly stay open. 

Gawain scooped him up like he weighed nothing and laid him to rest.

***

When he woke next, Gawain was sitting on the cot next to his, lazily flipping the pages of a book. It was dark and lanterns had been lit, basking the tent in soft, calming light.

Gawain turned his head when he noticed him shifting.

“Well hello there. Welcome back to reality. Never thought I’d see you with an ounce of lucidity ever again.”

He opened his mouth and instantly started coughing. Gawain moved to his side and silently waited for him to agree to his touch. By the movement his lungs were trying to execute and failing to, he could tell his ribs were still in a poor way, it would be hard to sit up without the help, so he nodded. Strong arms propped him up against the headboard and pressed a clay cup inside his hands. He accepted the water gratefully.

Gawain sat back on his own cot, taking back the book he had been reading.

“Pym has gone to get some food. She should be back in a bit.”

The water having helped, Lancelot swung his legs over the edge of the bed and scooted carefully to face the knight. That is when he noticed that the book Gawain had been reading was none other than Father Carden’s Bible. 

The mug shattered inside the ex-paladin’s hand, cutting his palm. The knight bolted up and advanced on him with decisive speed. He flinched and prepared himself for the hand or the fist across his cheek to punish him for his clumsiness. The last thing he expected was for him to take his hand, Gawain’s were calloused and somehow soft all at the same time, and put a clean press to stop the blood. He dared a glance up to his face. He had a crease of worry between his brows that Lancelot wished he could smooth over and his lips were pressed in a thin line.

“Are you alright? Be careful, there are shards of ceramic everywhere.”

Lancelot didn’t understand. There was nothing he could do but let the man bandage up his hand. When he was done, he began picking up the remains of the mug. He peered at him every once in a while with knowing eyes.

“I’m going to ask you something, and you don’t have to answer if you don’t want to. Did you…”, he seemed to lose a bit of his countenance, but soldiered on “Did you think I was going to hit you just now? For breaking a mug?”

He fidgeted slightly with the hem of his new bandage, refusing to look anywhere that wasn’t the ground, head bowed in repentance.

“I… apologies. I have offended you”, neither an admission nor a denial.

To his surprise, the man snorted: “Believe me, it’s going to take a  **_lot_ ** more than that to offend me, Ashman.”

The ground being finally free of shards, he came to sit in front of him again. Lancelot darted his eyes on the book beside the man and couldn’t help his hands making fists, his nails biting the flesh.

“Why are you reading the Holy Book?”, he demanded.

“Oh! Uuhhmmm”, Gawain looked a little like he had just gotten caught with his hand in the cookie jar. “I was a little curious I guess. While you were delirious, you spoke of a knight who was also a saint and I was trying to find the story. But honestly, I can’t make out any of the words so it’s a bit of a fool's errand.”

Lancelot was confused: “I talked about Saint George and the Green Dragon? Why would I do that?”

“So there was a dragon!”, Gawain said triumphantly. And was that a blush spreading all the way to the tip of his ears? “Anyway, I apologise. I should not have touched the book without your permission.”

Lancelot found that he didn’t actually mind, but he had been afraid of what the knight might think of it. Of him. It was somewhat of a relief that he couldn't read Latin.

They remained like this for a time in amiable silence. Then, Gawain put the book on Lancelot’s side table and kneeled before him. He made a deliberate movement to take Lancelot’s injured hand, leaving him plenty of time to stop him: “I can’t believe I have to say this, but just so we are completely clear: I will never, ever hit you. Never hurt you in any way. Especially not for something so trivial as breaking a mug. You are not with the paladins anymore. Whatever they did to you, it was wrong and sick”, he gently brought his hand to raise the younger man’s chin ever so slightly. They’re gazes met and Lancelot found that he could not look away from the knight's hazel eyes. “No one deserves what they did to you. I know you don’t believe that. But, my hope is that someday, your life will have been gentle enough that you can see that for yourself.” 

The monk wasn’t sure he believed him, but he also couldn’t smell any trace of lie on Gawain. So, he nodded slowly. 

Something occurred to him: “What if we are sparring?”

“What?”

“If you don’t hit me while we are sparring, it won’t be much training at all.”

Gawain’s eyebrows hitched, but then he smiled: “You can barely stand on your own two feet and you’re already talking about sparring?”

Lancelot folded his hands in his lap: “Well, maybe then you’ll have a chance at winning.”

He gave a soft chuckle. “Was that an effort at making a joke, Ashman?”, Gawain’s surprise kept on increasing. Lancelot gave him a shrug and a cheap look. The other man seemed to think for a little. “Well, it will take a while before anyone lets you near any kind of weapon, but when we get there, it would be good to have a competent sparring partner for once. Would you enjoy that?”

It was now Lancelot’s turn to look up in surprise. No one ever asked him his opinion about anything, unless it had to do with tracking and killing something, much less about his feelings on a topic. He opted for a firm nod of the head.

“Well then, I look forward to it”, Gawain ended with a wink.

And if Lancelot blushed a little, well it was too dark for anyone to tell. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos and comments are appreciated!


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lancelot slowly makes his place in the Fey camp. Then, there is a crisis of faith.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I literally don't know anything about the Bible and most related works, except that sometimes it has some dope-ass monsters and that some of it makes for great myths. So, probably half of what is written here is total BS, which means: don't take my ramblings too seriously. It's for fun.

After he had regained enough strength and was able to stand without assistance, Gawain escorted him to meet with the Wolf-Blood Witch and her council, Squirrel hot on their heels, and his hands bound to give everyone what was, in Lancelot’s opinion, a false sense of security. Still, it would have been a lie to say that the idea of meeting the woman who yielded so much power did not make him terrified. The mere thought of the fog that had taken over the mill only a few weeks ago made chills run up his spine. It had been a noxious experience for him as he couldn’t rely on his eyes and the information coming to his nose and ears had been so overwhelming that he almost shut down. If she could do something like that, he couldn't help but wonder what other horrors she could summon up. But, when Gawain spoke of her, he made her sound like a kind, loyal, and righteous soul. Lancelot could only hope that she would let him try to repent for his sins, by life or by death. In the meantime, his face would not betray the storm his heart was brewing.

When they entered the large command tent, they were faced with more people than Lancelot anticipated. The Fey Queen sat on a makeshift throne flanked on one side by a dangerous looking woman, adorned with metal, and holding a spear, and the man Lancelot had slashed across the chest, and on the other side by Pym and Kaze.

“Approach and kneel”, bid Nimue. Squirrel followed him close behind and gave him a reassuring tug on the sleeve, while Gawain took his place beside the queen. The woman regarded him for a long time. Lancelot kept his gaze drawn to the ground out of respect.

“Do you remember what you told me the first night you arrived here?”, she asked, tilting her head.

Lancelot searched his memory, but all he could recall were the faces of the women he had thought were Thrones - coming to render their judgment on his soul. And in a way they were, only the judgement was taking place at this moment.

“I’m sorry my lady, but I do not”, he answered in his conventional hushed tones.

“Understandable. You were delirious”, she rose from her seat and circled him slowly. “You made me a promise. You said ‘I will make it right or die trying’.”

She stopped in front of him.

“Yes, I remember now”, he answered, his eyes fastened on her feet.

“Will you do your best to uphold that promise?”

From behind her, a look of disbelief flashed through the man who really needed a sword lesson’s face: “Nimue… you can’t be serious! This man has kill-”

She held up her hand, silencing him.

“Well?”

Lancelot ventured a look at her face. “That is… a very generous offer, my lady.”

“It is not generous, monk”, she cut in, not unkindly, “Your life will never be yours again. You will atone for what you did to our people for the rest of your days.”

The ex-paladin couldn’t help a sad smile from fraying the corners of his mouth: “My life was never mine to begin with. But yes, I vow to you and all the people present that I will do my utmost to repay the many lives I have taken from you. My sword is yours.”

“Good”, she answered simply and moved to cut his bindings.

He could feel Squirrel jumping slightly in place beside him: “Does this mean we get to keep him?”, he said excitedly.

Nimue gave him a full-faced grin: ”Although he may look like one, he’s not a lost pup, Squirrel. But yes, we’re going to keep him.”

Squirrel was so delighted he gave her a huge hug and then did the same to Lancelot who stayed awkwardly still, not knowing what to do.

The queen continued: “I have given instructions to Pym on a few ground rules for your first weeks here. If all goes well, these rules will become more lax with time. In the meantime, you will be helping her in the infirmary.”

He gave a firm nod and bowed slightly.

***

Pym and Gawain saw them to the exit, Squirrel saying that he would catch up with him later as he saw a flock of children run past them. 

On his end, Gawain was beaming: “I know the last few weeks haven’t been easy for you, but for what it’s worth”, he said with a smile that seemed so genuine and true it made Lancelot’s heart ache, “I’m glad that you’re with us. Safe.”

Lancelot let himself smile for the first time in what felt like forever. His eyes crinkled slightly at the edges and it only made Gawain beam harder.

Pym just looked between them, the gears slowly moving inside her head. When Gawain finally spared a look her way, she was arching an eyebrow at him and smiling smugly. The sun dropped from his face very fast after that, although a lovely sunset colour did crawl its way up his neck and cheeks.

He gave a small cough and excused himself: “Apologies, duty calls.”

“Sure, you go do that”, answered an all too knowing Pym.

When he had disappeared, she turned to Lancelot who was completely oblivious to what had just happened. This was either going to be highly entertaining or, more likely, extremely frustrating. She sighed and said: “Well weepy, let’s get to work.”

***

His first days of freedom in the Fey camp were tense, for lack of a better term. The rules the Council had put in place were simple: he was to be under constant surveillance by one of its members, his movements were confined to the camp’s perimeter, and he was forbidden any type of weapon. It made his hands itch to be without even the smallest of knives, but it wasn’t like he really needed one to be lethal. Gawain told him it was probably a good idea to keep that latter truth to himself. He agreed seeing as any time he went out of their tent, despite his best attempts at making himself small and inconspicuous, he got dirty looks, parents dragged their children away. The bravest spat on him and called him names. He didn’t blame them: he hardly deserved the second chance that had been allotted to him. But, he was under the protection of the queen, which meant no one had attempted to assassinate him yet.

Pym learned he was rather good at suturing, making balms, and dressing wounds. She was disheartened to hear that it was because he had had to tend to himself more often than not when he got hurt. No one wanted to touch a beast, much less care for it. He said it with such ease… Pym didn’t know how to handle it.

But, she reminded herself, that was in the past and when Lancelot timidly came to her for help with redressing his own wounds, she wholeheartedly helped him. More than that, she poured all the attentiveness she could summon. The whispered ‘thank you’s from the ashman were more than enough.

Despite all evidence to the contrary, he was particularly good with children. It was surprising to Pym that a man so used to violence could be so nurturing when it came down to it. They were reticent at first. Scared. Squirrel took care of that, talking up a storm about how he took down a whole army of Trinity guards. And children, being children, they got curious. He cooed small encouragements over scraped knees and splinters, made them feel brave when they got cut or broke a bone.

The man was broken. But, Pym knew, he would get better with the right support.

*******

In his spare time, he read.

Here is the truth: the Ashman had never actually read the Holy Book. Father Carden had made damn sure to make him learn as much scripture by heart as possible to beat into him. Having a monster such as him touching anything that amounted to His grace would have been the epitome of blasphemy.

Now that Father Carden was dead… well.

That day they found his body, he took the book because he needed something to keep him on the straight and narrow. Growing up, his father had always told him right from wrong, but deep in the pit of his stomach, a lot of it hadn’t sat right with him. And now, he was lost. His moral compass shot to Hell.

If the Holy Book couldn’t tell him, then what would be the point?

So Lancelot, in what had started to become a habit, disobeyed Father Carden’s rules and read.

***

Gawain made his way hurriedly to the tent where he and Lancelot shared quarters. Moments ago, Pym had come to alert him that Lancelot had flown in a blind rage and was wreaking havoc on all he could get his hands on. Kaze and she had attempted to calm him down, but couldn’t seem to be able to reach him in his frenzy.

When he got there, the tent flaps were flown open and Kaze was looking in, unimpressed. Gawain had expected there to be screaming, but all he could hear was the raged heaving of the ashman and the furniture being tossed here and there. Thankfully, his rage seemed to have been contained to everything immediately around him. There were a few broken chairs, the table and all its contents had been toppled, even one of the mattresses which was quite heavy lay several feet from where it had started. More importantly, there were pages of Lancelot’s holy book everywhere.

Gawain turned to Kaze and asked her to go get a large bucket of cold water. While he waited, he called out Lancelot’s name several times to no avail, much like he suspected. He had never seen the ashman like this. He was usually so well put together and carefully composed. It didn’t seem like much would be able to crack that façade. But here we were.

The knight took stock: his knuckles were bloodied, he had a gash on his forehead, and he looked unhinged - baring his teeth, growling and tunneled vision.

When Kaze appeared, he told her to stay outside and stand at the ready. He went into the tent, gave a last attempt at calling the furious man’s name, and grabbed him while apologising profusely. Once outside, Kaze dumped the entire bucket over the ashman’s head. He coughed and spat for a little and fell deathly still, the only evidence to the contrary, the small tremor that ran through him and his deep breaths. Gawain thanked Kaze for her help and dismissed her. Then, he led an all too compliant Lancelot back in the tent.

***

_ A hand grasping his neck. Here he was, snapping out of his unhindered fury, control wrapping like a vice around his chest, his skin radiating heat; control, domination, the switch; his brutal defeat, as if bleeding out of himself, out of the protective armor of his skin - the way succulents blooms. _

_ ***  _

Leading the younger man in softly, he sat him on his own bed, which had oddly been left untouched, and started drying the man with a blanket. He wiped the blood of his brow and took care of his bruised knuckles. When he was done, he led the man down to rest.

He looked at the mess around and slowly began unfastening his armor.

“Gawain?”, came the small voice behind him. He turned to find the other man wide-eyed and confused. He’d never called him by his name before.

Lancelot seemed to come to the slow realisation of what had happened. What he had done.

He rose to his feet and promptly fell to his knees before Gawain, his hands on his knees, his face downwards, and position repentant.

“I’m so sorry. I’ll fix it, I swear I’ll fix it”, he said lower and lower.

It made Gawain supremely uncomfortable to have Lancelot kneel before him like that. So, he sank to his knees too. He gently cupped that beautiful ashen face.

“What happened?”

“I…” he looked at all the pages that had been ripped out of his book. He took a deep shuddering breath. “He lied to me…”

Gawain searched his face, uncertain: “Who lied to you?”

Lancelot looked up, his face drenched, and new tears coming to add to the permanent ones. “Father Carden… All these years. He made me believe that God would only forgive someone like me if… if I killed others of my kind. Helped in their annihilation.  _ Our annihilation _ .”

He fisted the fabric of his pants into a tight knuckled grip: “I read the book… it’s all a lie. It says we are all God’s creations no matter what. That his Son died for our sins. That He’ll forgive us no matter what.”

That’s when he broke down, sobbing. And Gawain couldn’t help but just hold him close. He whispered soothing words in his ear until he regained some control.

“I know what you’re thinking”, he finally said, “how can I still believe after everything that has happened.”

Gawain resumes his pose of holding the man’s face within his palms. Lancelot looks him straight in the eye.

“It’s because of you. You may not believe in Him, but I believe He sent you. Or at least I hope He did. God works in mysterious ways. It’s sometimes hard to discern who it benefits and how. What I will not do is pretend you weren’t exactly the person I needed when I needed it most. I have to believe I was put on this path for a reason.”

There was so little space between them. “You changed  _ everything _ .”

When their lips met, Gawain knew there was no turning back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, kudos and comments are appreciated!


	6. We Get What We Deserve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gawain and Lancelot deal with the fallout of their first kiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for the comments!
> 
> I'm happy with how this is moving along.
> 
> WARNING: Lancelot takes a beating in this one so if you don't want to read that stop at after the tent scene with Lancelot

Gawain’s mouth was so much softer than Lancelot could ever have imagined. It was  _ amazing _ . It was terrible. It made the Ashman’s heart pound and his mind whisper with the voice of the man who poisoned his entire existence. He should stop. Must stop. He couldn’t let this morsel of hope grow. He repeated the words of Father Carden like a mantra:  _ Your body is not your own _ . His life was not his. And yet, a tiny part of him told him this felt right.

His entire body trembled and demanded to know the fires his hands could bring. Demanded to know the words to his prayers. He wanted this impossibly kind heart to tell him what he knew of redemption. 

Gawain kisses him back mercifully, helplessly. Reaching his hands, but not grabbing.  _ Never _ grabbing. Knowing all too well his wars were not yet ended.

He had to stop. To push away. Gawain would not be able to live with himself if he went too far, wouldn't be able to forgive himself if this stupidly beautiful stubborn man saw absolution in what the knight could take from him. The same way some flowers do when they are never watered. His shoulders concaving at the faintest touch. Always nervous. Always remembering.

Lancelot deserved better.

He broke away and left.

***

Gawain came barging into the healing tent, making Pym jump and drop the jars she was attempting to sort, holding much too many at the same time. The Green Knight barely even seemed to notice the crash and clang. He immediately started pacing, his hands clenched behind his back, a deep frown etched in his face.

Pym sighed. Why was it that everyone always seemed inclined on ruining her day?

“Ugggh… Gawain! Now I have to start all over again.”

He stopped dead in his tracks, swallowed and made a pained face. “I kissed Lancelot”, he finally dropped, avoiding her eyes. 

Pym rolled her eyes: “Shocker”. But inside, she squealed. She'd never tell.

The knight visibly slumped.

“Ok, ok. I’m sorry. Don’t give me that face”, she soothed, “Just sit down and tell me what happened.”

“I don’t know. I promised myself I wouldn’t do something like this”, he was fidgeting. ”Despite my feelings…”

“Oh Gawain… You’ve always acted like you’re all alone in the world. And I won't deny that for a long time, you were. But you’re not anymore and you don’t owe the entirety of yourself to the Fey cause. I know that that’s hard for you to grasp because you're so full of duty, brave sir knight”, she poked at his ribs, gently teasing, “Maybe you should let a small part of yourself belong to him. He is more nurturing than he appears and I would trust him with your heart.”

“But I do not trust myself with his.”

“Why not? I think both of you understand being alone for so long, you forget yourselves. You are both products of war. But you remember how to love. And I think he desperately needs someone to show him he  _ can _ be loved. Someone who will fiercely protect any happiness he can earn.”

She wiped the single tear that was slowly crawling down his face and rested a hand on his.

Gawain knew himself. He was broken. The Kitchens had taken something out of him that he didn't know how to replace. No matter how many times he looked his body over, tracing the scars, he could not find what was missing.

He was hurting, had been for a long time, and was still lying about it. There was no good way to say that, sometimes, he forgot how to breathe. That he was constantly relearning how to do the easy things - eating when he was hungry, getting out of bed in the morning.

And yet… Lancelot made Gawain _feel._ His hands were blood soaked with murder and he trusted them completely _,_ despite it. He knew that Lancelot had never had a place to be soft. That his life had been about bruises and knives. That he had made himself into something that others would be afraid to hurt. Gawain knew all too well, the person we are and the person we become in order to survive are not one and the same. 

While Gawain's own heart was broken, he would not trust anyone to give Lancelot that place to feel safe in. It had to be him.

He would be terrified of twisting the trust Lancelot had placed in him. To twist it into something it was not. But that is a risk they would have to take.

Plus, he had to admit, trouble had never looked so damn fine.

***

Lancelot stayed on the ground for a while after Gawain had left. Hands curled atop his mouth like he could keep the lingering feeling of the Skyman on his lips.

He swallowed around the words  _ I love you, I’m sorry _ . Shoving them back in the dark hole they had created in his mind.

He should know this. He’s learned this before - no one will ever love him.

He contemplated leaving the tent and going for a walk in the forest nearby, but stopped himself. He was still not supposed to be left on his own, so he willed himself to stay put. The thought of the Green Knight getting into more trouble because of him was more than he could bear. He slowly got up to his feet and started picking up the mess he had created.

Gawain probably hated him now. Just like God hated him, the Brothers he had forsaken hated him… his people hated him. Father Carden had lied about many things, but one thing remained true - he was an abomination.

His hand caught on something. He raised it only to see a shallow cut running the length of his hand from where he had been picking up glass. He considered the bold edges of the shard. Imagined how its bite would feel across his chest.

That’s when the Tusks came in.

***

They were very efficient, Lancelot noted to himself calmly, despite being gagged and bound. He had not been left alone for one second since his arrival at camp almost two moons ago. They must have been bidding their time for an opportunity like this one. He had been caught woefully unawares. Truly, he should be ashamed that the instincts he had so carefully cultivated did not kick in. Maybe a part of them did, the tendrils of self-preservation curling themselves through his already overexert muscles. Yet, he did not act. He was tired of fighting.

They dragged him to a small clearing, a short distance away from the camp. Far enough, for no one to hear him, and not far enough to attract unwanted attention from outsiders.

They all but threw him on the ground before their leader removed the gag.

“Hello there monk”, he said with false mirth.

Carefully concealing his fear behind the blank mask of the Weeping Monk. He stared straight ahead with cold determination, setting his jaw.  _ If this is how I go _ ,  _ so be it _ .

The Fey used the point of his sword to raise his face up, the point nicking his throat.

“You're certainly prettier than the stories make you out to be. No wonder the Green Knight keeps you around.” 

The implied attack on Gawain’s character made his nostrils flare in anger. He slid his leg between the Fey’s and hooked it behind his knee, making him plummet gracelessly to the ground. The other two backed away a few steps. 

It made the Tusk pissed. He got back to his feet and backhanded Lancelot so hard he saw stars. He did his best to look bored.

“Want some more pretty boy?” he said with a snarl and kicked him straight into the stomach. The audible crack of his still healing ribs making him wince. The small sound he made seemed to be enough to embolden the others. They gave him a few kicks of their own before getting a rope in his line of vision.

“You killed my wife”, said their leader, hurt dripping from his voice. “She was fierce and beautiful. And you killed her.”

He waited for the monk to say something. When he responded with nothing, the Tusk continued: “You’ll die a painful death monk.”

_ Finally _ , he thought,  _ justice _ . 

Lancelot looked at him straight in the eye: “Get on with it then.”

He grabbed him by his hair, pulling him to his feet, propping him up against a tree. The other two wrapped the rope around his neck, each went their way around the tree and started pulling.

“I’ll enjoy seeing the life slip out of you.”

He would have started praying if his windpipe wasn't so tight.

There was a flurry of sound from the back, clashing and then screaming. Suddenly the rope was set loose. He fell on his side, wheezing.

A figure emerged at the corner of his eye. The Tusk took a swing and the sword was slapped out from his hand by a spear.

“You better run Tusk, before I cut the tendons to your legs like I did your associates”, spat the Red Spear, “And be certain that the Queen will hear of this. If you were part of my crew, I'd execute you right here and now. May she be more merciful than I.”

The Fey didn’t need to be told twice.

When he was gone, Guinevere dropped a knee at his side.

“Are you alright Ashman?”

He nodded slowly.

She helped him up, taking the brunt of his weight, and they made their slow way back to the camp.

“Why didn’t you stop them? I’ve heard your fighting skills are unmatched. Tied up wrists are child's play.”

Lancelot could only answer in a whisper, he was feeling dizzy from the lack of oxygen, and it was hard to stay upright: “Didn’t want to.”

She gave a full belly laugh.

"Oh I know you’re kind, Christian. You believe you have to walk a thousand miles in the desert on your knees, repenting. It might be so, but your dying wouldn't help anyone” After a moment of silence, she added with a note of challenge: “That's for cowards.”

He strained his neck to look at her. She was still laughing. That’s when Lancelot knew, they would get along famously.


	7. Embers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gawain finally, FINALLY, confesses his love to Lancelot.

He had not been wrong - it seemed Gawain hated him now. He had been simmering with anger when the Red Spear and him had wobbled into Pym's tent. After having a quick word with Guinevere, he stormed out, loathing cold and plain in his body language.

Pym looked him up and down with a deep sigh.

“We really need to stop meeting like this.”

“I’m sorry”, he attempted with hoarseness.

She waved a hand in dismissal: “Now, now. No need for that. Just… Try to stay fixed for more than a week, please? As much as I enjoy your company, I would rather it be a social visit than… whatever  _ this  _ is.”

He lowered his gaze in shame. Guinevere gave him a small kick on the shin to grab his attention.

“I will speak to Nimue about allowing you unto the training grounds. Seeing you in action should dissuade any further attacks if the stories about you are true”, she gave him a mischievous grin and poked at his wounded side, gently but still enough to make him grunt. “Come and find me when you’re no longer a rag doll. I want to see what all the fuss is about.”

***

Gawain was furious with himself. He had left his charge for one minute and he had almost died. What had he been thinking? The answer, obviously, was nothing at all. The Ashman made him lose all sensibility.

Still, this was his fault and he would see that those who had committed the crime were punished - probably slightly more than - appropriately.

When he found the bastard who had been the gang leader, he broke his nose while Kaze and Arthur flew to restrain him from doing any more damage. Suffice to say, no one would be threatening the Ashman for a while after such a display.

***

The woman was deadly fast. It was exhilarating to fight with someone who could match him hit for hit. It was incredibly rare that he could get close enough within the graceful arks she created with her spear to actually hit her.

“Is that all you’ve got, monk?”

He gave her a rueful smile. Because of his injuries, he tired rather quickly, but he could still manage to get her to sweat a little. That, in and of itself, was an accomplishment.

It felt good to be able to train again. It was a sanctuary of familiarity within the strange turns his life had taken in the last few months. He had not thought he would make a friend out of it, but Guinevere stuck around and helped him train Percival whenever she was not busy with the war council or with the duties of ruling. 

He was especially grateful for the distraction now that things were so strained between him and Gawain. After the kiss and the beating Lancelot took, the knight had all but avoided him. It hurt, but he had understood the message; he would stay away. He had not been worthy of the knight’s attention in the first place. He had even moved into his own tent, which he now shared with Percival. He did his best to find solace in his new friendship with Guinevere and fulfillment in the promise he had made to the fey boy.

At first, he had been frightened to start teaching him - he did not want him to learn through blood, broken bones, or food and sleep deprivation, as he had. Guinevere had assured him that such gruesome methods were entirely unnecessary, a rare sighting of her iron personality slipping into compassion. She even showed him a few games all the raiders and herself had learned as children to begin molding their bodies into the art of war.

The most popular game, and the one currently at hand, was a version of hide and seek meant to practice stealth. You were meant to find your opponent and try to sneak up on them without being noticed. Oftentimes, many of the Fey children would join in as it made the game more difficult and more fun. At this precise moment, there were several players and Lancelot acted aloof: he could smell every single one of the hidden fey, could hear them giggle inside bushes and on tree tops. They were definitely going to gang up on him. Their solidarity made him smile.

“Charge!” Yelled Percival.

He pretended to jump in surprise as a hurd of small fey jumped from their hiding spots and ran up to him, doing their best to toggle him to the ground with as much success as you would expect. He finally let himself crumple to the ground while the children screamed victory. Guinevere barked at them with not much effect to be mindful of his injuries, but he didn’t mind. A bit of pain was well worth their mirth.

Part of Lancelot was swelling with pride at Percival’s progress, the other hated it. While he knew that the boy having these skills was invaluable, could mean the difference between life and death, he hated that he needed them at all.

Whenever he saw the little boy lunge fiercely at Guinevere or himself, or saw the wheels of his brain spinning to find the best tactic for his next move, or take charge like he had just now, he spared a thought for Abbott Wicklow. Oh how wrong he had been. He hadn’t saved the boy because he had made him think of himself. He saved him because he was so much like Gawain. He imagined the man may have been much like Percival when he was a child. Albeit, probably slightly less of a pest - he thought fondly - that would have been hard to equal.

Gawain and Percival had withstood a childhood that was robbed blind of love that was meant to be safe. They had learned to fight because of it, or maybe in spite of it. More than that, they had both decided to keep loving what they could regardless of their loss. Lancelot admired that.

It was not easy, but he would try to do the same, he had decided. For Percival. And Pym, and Guinevere, and the gaggle of children who were presently mercilessly dogpiled on top of him. And for Gawain. God as his witness, Lancelot would give him all of his heart and make sure nothing bad ever happened to him again. Even if that love was never returned. It would be enough to know the man was safe.

***

Gawain watched their game from afar. He loved to see Lancelot training Squirrel - and apparently the entirety of the Fey progeny; Hidden only knew how the man could remain so patient in the face of their antics. It made Gawain’s heart do something funny to see Lancelot taking care of the boy in this way. Even if it wasn’t exactly conventional, it was the only way he knew how - sharing his skills. 

There were so many children swarming the Ashman, climbing and hanging off of him, that he collapsed, laughing. And oh small gods of every humble beauty, that laugh was enough to send Gawain directly back into his grave. 

He wished it were he who had coaxed it out. But he did not trust himself around the man right now.

Ever since he had seen the Ashman come in Pym’s tent, that awful mark around his neck, he had not been himself.

The thought of losing him had been maddening. And as much as he wanted to tell the Ashman, he did not want to twist whatever feelings the man might have for him by expressing his own.

“‘Tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all’*,” came a voice from little ways away.

He looked to the ground a few paces away to see Merlin, spread out on the ground, his arms folded under his head and nibbling at a piece of straw grass, soaking up the sun.

“What?”

“Just some words of wisdom from a man that has yet to be born,” he answered like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Gawain liked cryptic messages just about as much as he enjoyed the mage’s company. He started walking away when Merlin called out to him.

“Oh brave sir knight?” The words sounded more like a jab than anything else. Nonetheless, Gawain stopped in his tracks and rubbed a hand over his tired brow, somewhat ready for whatever new foolishness would come out of the man’s mouth. When he turned, the wizard was propped up on his elbows, looking at the training ground, a rare instance of seriousness gracing his features.

“You’re in love with him and he’s in love with you. Sometimes, things are as simple as that,” he drove his gaze right through Gawain’s soul. After a long moment of contemplation he added: ”But, there is such a thing as to be both starving and empty. There are some who ache for love…” his eyes fogged with a distant memory, a hand coming to rest where the sword of power had been pulled out of him, “when we ache for love, we take any scraps from the table, and run at the first sight of a feast. It is hard to understand, but some of us go for so long hungry that the idea of being full feels…”

“Like a sin,” Gawain completed, thoughtful. Merlin gave a short nod. 

“He does not think himself worthy of you. He let those Tusks take him because it was as good as any other way to repent for the kindness you have shown him. He does not know what to do with it. So, he will throw his life away if it means he can keep you safe for one more day. The only love language he knows is that of use.”

Gawain looked at the mage for a while, wondering why he was being so helpful all of a sudden.

“Thank you.”

The wizard waved his hand at him in a shooing motion: “Yes, yes. Now, go brood somewhere else. Some of us are actually trying to enjoy this perfectly good day.” 

***

Later that night, Lancelot had been picking and cleaning up the remains of Percival’s and his dinner while the boy availed himself of the last rays of sun to play with his friends.

He was smiling secretly to himself, he would never have thought to find himself in such a domestic situation. It made him feel oddly content.

There was rustling behind him. He turned to see Gawain enter.

“Apologies,” he breathed, “I did not mean to disturb you.”

He stood in the entrance awkwardly. Lancelot did not know the protocol for this type of situation, so he simply stood like a deer in the headlights.

After a moment of total utter silence, he seemed to regain control of his spiraling thoughts.

“If you are looking for Percival, he is still out playing.”

Gawain appeared lost for a bit before understanding what Lancelot thought was happening.

“I’m not here for Squirrel, Lancelot,” his eyes giving away an emotion the Ashman could not place. “I’m here for you. To apologise.”

Now, Lancelot was well and truly lost.

“Apologise?” he repeated, totally out of his depth.

Gawain stepped closer to him and knelt. He bent his head down in a show of penitence.

“Yes. I have been a fool. I have been avoiding you like a coward. Will you forgive me?”

He raised those devastatingly hazel eyes to gaze into Lancelot’s. The Ashman was leaning uncomfortably on the table behind him.

No one had ever apologised to him. Much less asked for his forgiveness. There was nothing anyone could do to him that would ever warrant such a display and he said as much.

Gawain shook his head: “That is not true. I have been an ass. And you are worth the extension of these words of remorse. But you do not have to accept them. Now or ever. It is enough that you heard them. They are yours and you may do as you will with them,” he climbed to his feet in a swift motion. “Now, I have to make it right and that starts with a confession. If you will hear it.”

Lancelot could not bring himself to do anything but nod.

“When Guinevere brought you to Pym after… After that bastard attacked you,” he began, his fists clenching and his head turning away. “I could not stand the thought that I had almost lost you.”

It wasn’t said in a romantic way. It was said from a place of deeply entrenched grief. A place that knew all too well the cost of loss. The Ashman knew the feeling. Had even experienced the outcome when he had thought the knight was gone forever.

The Skyman took a deep breath and sighed, bringing his hands in front of him for emphasis: “What I am trying to say is, I love you Lancelot... And I am scared."

That made Lancelot flinch, his stomach coiling with bile. The turmoil of confusing and new emotions had his eyes brimming with tears he did his best not to spill. He loved him. Gawain loved him. It made him feel light and like he had done a terrible thing that would send him even deeper into Hell’s clutches. Such a man should not love a beast as him. And the knight  _ was _ terrified. As he should be.

"Of what? Me?"

Gawain shook his head.

"Of me," he looked at him, his hands trembling at his side. "Of me hurting you."

There was a long pause between them. Gawain waited with pressure rising in his lungs. Lancelot, for his part, was busy looking at the floor like it had a million pieces of an impossible puzzle he needed to put together. He kept his gaze lowered when he had picked his words.

“I… you cannot love me,” he settled on. By now, his voice was withering with contempt for himself. “I am a murderer, Gawain. And you are so good. You are  _ so _ good. I cannot ruin one more good thing. Do not forget: I am a weapon - you can use a spear as a walking stick, but you cannot change its nature. I will not watch you crumble with me under the weight of my sins.”

Gawain looked him over with such sadness, it made him feel like he deserved the worst punishment he could think of.

“I am no saint, Lancelot.”

And dear God, if love was anything tangible, it was his mouth. His holy goddamn mouth, holding his name like it could make the whole sky fall.

“I have committed my fair share of sins and atrocities. Things I will never be forgiven for. And despite it all, I still believe that we deserve a measure of happiness.”

They paused again. This time Lancelot gathered the courage to look directly into the knight’s eyes. He looked so sincere and genuine. It was the first time someone told him they loved him, and he actually believed them.

“I don’t think you could,” he began, softening with the slow realisation of what Gawain had just confided, ”hurt me that is. And even if you did, it would be no more or less than I deserve. No more or less than I have endured -”

“Stop,” Gawain pleaded, stepping forward, wanting to comfort him, but being mindful of the cornered animal stance of the Ashman. “Don’t say things like that. That is exactly what I am terrified of: that I will be wanting and that you will take it because - forgive my boldness - because you have been shown so little love or kindness that you have forgotten what it’s supposed to feel like.”

It made Lancelot’s heart squeeze uncomfortably. He thought about father Carden. About that last day in the Paladin’s camp when he had asked his Father if he loved him. The silence that lived between the simple question and the empty answer had confirmed a suspicion the Weeping Monk had held at arm's length for as long as he could: Father Carden had never loved him, and he had believed he did so fervently. He had been a fool.

“I... I thought I did once...” He said in no more than a whisper, steady before his courage left him. “But I would like to learn.”

He forced himself to keep steadfast eyes on the impossibly stubborn man before him. Those smoldering eyes of green and warm brown earth would surely be the death of him. It would be a good way to go.

“Well,” answered the Green Knight in soft tones, slowly closing the distance between them as he spoke, making sure that Lancelot had a way out if he so chose. “I hope you find out what it is one of these days. And I hope you find it on your own terms. I hope you are given the time to figure out what moves you, what encourages your soul, what you deeply crave from life, and I hope you have the courage to chase them all. I hope you have the courage to believe that you are deserving of everything you desire, that you are capable and worthy of curating the kind of life that lights a fire inside of you.”

He reached up to smooth a rogue lock of hair behind Lancelot’s ear. He let his hand slide under the man’s chin, brushing against the hanged man mark across his throat.

“I hope you find the kind of love that makes you a softer person. The kind of love that makes you want to be a better man, the kind of love that believes in you and supports you in this new life you have chosen for yourself. I hope you find someone who becomes your favourite thing - someone who makes the fall less fearful, someone you cannot stop yourself from choosing every single day. I hope you find someone who shows you just how deeply you can feel, just how deeply you can love. I hope you find something real, because nothing is more beautiful than loving someone who loves you back. Nothing more beautiful than loving someone who builds you a home in their heart.”

All Lancelot’s training and upbringing told him he should duck, stab and run as far away from Gawain as was physically possible. Yet, something else, something small and hopeful, stoked the embers of a fire that he had thought long dead. 

"All these things, I will give you. If you would give me that honour," he finished, shockingly blue eyes brimming with tears meeting his.

Gently, carefully, Lancelot leaned closer, relatively certain that this time, nothing bad would happen. When their lips touched, it was with reverence. It was feather light, a little unsure, like a question. Gawain snaked his arms around him, and provided the answer. Lancelot pressed himself into Gawain’s broad chest. It felt safe. He did not know arms could be a place of safety. 

Gawain kissed him with a fervour Lancelot had only known in prayer. And w hen they finally parted, panting and lips reddened by teeth, the knight regarded him with such wonder it made fire creep up his cheeks.

The table behind them was rather quickly relieved of all its contents, the crash probably audible for a mile around, as Gawain bent Lancelot over to kiss him until he forgot all trespasses against him.

***

Outside the tent, Pym was being her nosy self when Squirrel came back from playtime.

"Squirrel!” she squeaked, trying to appear as inconspicuous as possible and failing, “How about you come sleep in Kaze and I's tent tonight? Lancelot is a little busy."

The boy peered at her suspiciously, but a quick look into the tent told him everything he needed to know. He shrugged and followed Pym, leaving his dads some privacy for the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * Quote from Lord Tennyson's 'In Memoriam: 27'
> 
> 'He is a weapon, a killer. Do not forget it. You can use a spear as a walking stick, but that will not change its nature.' Madeline Miller from Song of Achilles
> 
> Next chapter will be pure smut garbage, I promise. But, like, with feelings.


	8. Yours

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, hello, hello!
> 
> Long time no update! But here we are.
> 
> WARNING: smut with a bit of story building, but mostly smut.
> 
> Enjoy!

He crashed into him, warm bodies pressed against each other, tongues demanding and desperate, hands roaming everywhere. Gawain grabbed Lancelot’s hips firmly, lifting him to sit on the table they had hastily divested of its contents. Lancelot grunted at the strong hands holding him in place.

“I have you,” Gawain whispered, because he needed him to know. The Ashman hummed in his mouth.

“And I want you,” he continued, pressing even closer. He needed him to know that too.

Lancelot made a feral sound, letting his clever fingers begin untangling the leather straps of his gabison. The knight let him work in favour of letting his hands wander under the other man’s shirt. Running his fingers along the jagged scars littering his skin, reminding himself that the ashman was broken. 

Just like he was broken.

Soon enough, the gabison was removed, shoved carelessly to the floor, and warm hands met the skin under his shirt, holding him still. He barely had time to shiver before the hip lodged against him grinded against his groin. He let out a small huff of pleasure, his forehead pressing against Lancelot’s, who looked on at him like he was prey. He was somewhat surprised to find that the Ashman knew exactly what he was doing. Then again, stick enough people in one place  _ and _ tell them touching each other is a sin… well, you’re bound to get a few curious souls.

Those eyes sent a thrill down Gawain’s spine. The last time the man had looked at him that way, he had driven a sword straight through him. Not many people had the skill to take him down, and he found that, to his surprise, the idea of being manhandled by someone who could easily overpower him made his dick twitch. He was so often the one in control, losing it made something dark stir in his gut.

Though, he’d die before he ever admitted to that.

“Careful now, Ashman. I’ve been known to bite,” he said in a vain attempt to cover the thought with glibness.

Lancelot looked at him straight in the eye, his own gaze unwavering and slightly dangerous, a man on the hunt. 

“Pain is of no importance if I can get what I want.”

Gawain swallowed hard. A distant part of him felt concerned about these words. But there would be time for that later. All the time in the world. Right now, they only made him want to disintegrate the all too composed face of the other warrior into an expression of bliss - if that were even at all possible.

Before he could attempt anything, the Ashman flipped them both with surprising ease, Gawain now finding himself stuck between the table and Lancelot, pressing in all the right places.

While Gawain is a mountain of a man - all wide shoulders, wide hands, and wide grin to match it - Lancelot is a river. He is long and sinuous, lean where Gawain is thick, quiet where he is loud. And while Gawain has a few inches on him, Lancelot has an intensity to him that makes Gawain’s breath hitch.

He’s never found himself pinned like this. He is the Green Knight after all: no one has ever dared take him on this way.

Gawain has to remind himself, as Lancelot begins untying his breaches, earth is steady and sure, but water - water is patient and always finds a way, carving paths through meadow and mountain alike.

And his hands.  _ Hidden _ . His hands are so warm against his skin - warm and rough with callouses from holding a sword up most of his life - they send shivers up his spine.

When his pants finally come undone, one of those blessed hands reaches in, Lancelot’s gaze studying his face intently for any signs of change. It should be bothersome, but he somehow deduces from it how to touch him right. And it felt so _ good _ . It’s been so long, Gawain has almost forgotten what it feels like to be touched with no intention to harm - although the ashman is rough, it’s exactly what he needs.

He slumps forward, his head resting in the crux of Lancelot’s shoulder. The other man steadies him and dips his head, pressing bruising kisses along the side of his neck.

“Take me to bed, ashman,” Gawain whispers in his ear between strained breaths.

Lancelot is all too ready to comply, grabbing him and making him walk backwards towards his bed, taking care to remove the skyman’s shirt as they went. 

Gawain’s calves hit the wooden frame and he is shoved unceremoniously backwards, his back hitting the hay with a grunt. Lancelot kneels at the foot of the bed, dragging down the fabric of the knight’s pants down until they are out of his way.

The sight of him on his knees over his already leaking cock was more than the knight had expected, and when Lancelot sank a greedy mouth over it, he couldn’t help the low moan that escaped his mouth.

“ _ Fuck, _ ” he managed as Lancelot ran the flat of tongue over the head of his dick.

Lancelot was obviously practiced, he knew exactly where to swipe his tongue to have him grip the sheets until his knuckles were white.

“Lancelot,” he pleaded. His tone made Lancelot stop all activity, his hands leaving his stomach and his thigh, pinning themselves flat on the mattress in a practiced motion, as if to demonstrate he was not a danger. Grey-blue eyes taking the knight in, searching for any sign of discomfort or distress.

Gawain smiles at him gently, trying to placate the creeping worry he can see in the ex-monks posture.

“Come here,” he murmurs, crooking his fingers and dragging Lancelot towards him with what he can grab of his shirt. The ashman growls but comes willingly, crawls up to him until they are face to face. 

He tenses up when Gawain tries to catch his mouth in a kiss, head backtracking just a little too far for the knight to make it, his eyes covered by a veil of uncertainty. They had kissed before, of course. But, Gawain realised fast enough, he is never the one who had initiated - never the one who gave.

He waited, his head coming to rest back on the mattress. He was a patient man, and eventually, Lancelot seemed to reach a decision. When Gawain tries again, the ashman’s lips part to accept him. It was slow and tender, so unlike Lancelot’s bruising embraces. Lazy kisses bleeding into each other until he forgets where he starts and Lancelot ends. When they parted, breathless, Lancelot stared at his lips as if he had just discovered a new continent. It made Gawain let out a huff of laughter, which in turn took Lancelot out of his stupor, pink rising from under the collar of his shirt.

It was a fetching colour. He couldn’t help but wonder, how low did that blush go exactly? Only one way to find out. He slowly pulled Lancelot’s shirt up over his head, letting his fingers drag over his sides and earning him a shiver from the ashman.

To Gawain’s delight, the blush went low. Way past the man’s breaches if he had to guess. He deftly undoes the buttons to the man’s trousers before pushing them off Lancelot’s body, revealing milky skin, scars moon-streaked and expanded in the candle light, inch by precious inch.

Oh and what he would do to that skin, but Lancelot doesn’t give him the chance.

As soon as Gawain had settled back to admire his handiwork, Lancelot was handling a bottle of oil that had seemingly appeared out of nowhere.

The ex-monk was certainly full of surprises.

He could barely finish the thought as the man over him dragged him into another searing kiss, slim fingers pressing between his cheeks, barely breaking for breath. Gawain hissed at the intrusion, but breathed through it, taking in Lancelot’s air and focusing on what felt good, until only that feeling was left. Lancelot took care of him, worshipping him, pressing against his walls and finding his prostate. He worked Gawain slowly, didn’t rush anything. By the time the ashman had three fingers inside of him, Gawain’s cock was straining and leaking between them, crying out for attention. Gawain’s hand left Lancelot’s back, flitting to his cock before the other man batted it away.

“None of that, I’m taking care of you.”

Gawain sighed out a chuckle - he would be lying if he said being ordered around did nothing to him - the sound falling into a groan. Somewhere along the way, he lost himself to the sensation. It’s all blunt nails and calluses and an expert twist of the ashman’s hand that has him moaning out, back arching. Three fingers became four, and Gawain crested the edge and back down before Lancelot deemed him ready.

Gawain hadn’t done this since he was a teenager, so it was still a stretch, still an aching burn that has him seizing and gasping.

Lancelot slows, bringing his hand up to stroke his hair and down his face - a gesture so genuinely soft, Gawain has to wonder if this is the man who once killed him.

“Easy,” he soothed, “I’ve got you.”

Gawain almost lost it right there and then

They go slow, painfully so, like a goddamn glacier, until he was forced to take Lancelot’s face and hissed, “Fucking move.”

Then, it’s a little faster, Lancelot finding all those places in Gawain that made him gasp and moan and whimper - a damning contrast to Lancelot who was deathly quiet, too busy absorbing the skyfolk becoming undone under his hands.

His hands fisted the pillows above his head, putting the entirety of his chest on display for Lancelot to enjoy as he saw fit. At this point, Gawain’s voice was nothing but Lancelot’s name, spilling from his lips like a prayer.

“Lancelot - Lance - ah yes - _ Lancelot _ .”

The ashman groaned, pressing his face into Gawain’s throat before dipping his head to suck deep bruises into his skin.

In the end, it was all too much. Lancelot’s hand and cock, stretching him to his limit, his tender gestures hollowing his thoughts until the pleasure is all he could think about. With a sigh, he came, spilling white and hot all over the ashman’s hand. He clenched down tight pulling a new grown out of Lancelot.

“Mother of God,” he said under his breath.

He stilled and began slipping out, still hard, before Gawain stopped him.

“Come inside of me,” he demanded.

Lancelot looked at him, disbelief clear and simple on his face. “Alright.”

He throbbed hot and thick inside him for a moment longer, thrusting hard enough for Gawain to see stars of aftershock, before he spilt, moaning with relief.

Gawain closed his eyes, letting himself bask in the afterglow for a moment. Lancelot moved, going to the washing basin to collect a rag. The mattress dips next to him and Lancelot takes great care in wiping him down.

Soon, they were a pile of sleepy limbs.

***

Later, dozing off and still lying in each other's arms, he felt Lancelot’s heartbeat pick up. He could practically hear the low sizzle of his brain, trying to make sense of something. Gawain waited patiently for the ashman to find his words.

“Do you - do you love me?” He finally dropped, digging his head into Gawain’s side so he didn’t have to look at his face. 

It wasn’t what Gawain had expected him to ask at all. He had thought that after his lengthy admission only hours ago, it would have been painfully clear. He should have known better. The knight was fairly certain Lancelot had never had something like this.

Gawain would have to make sure there was no room for doubt.

He pulled away, pressing a hand under his chin. He angled his face so he could peer into those beautiful eyes. His usually so impassive Ashman now full of what looked like dread, which only grew with every passing second of silence. This seemed more important than Gawain could fully understand. Yes, he would make sure Lancelot knew.

“I love you, Lancelot,” he gazed meaningfully at him, taking in his every feature. “Despite our history and everything we have done to each other or what we still might... there’s a corner of my heart that is yours. And I don’t mean for now, or until you figure out what it means. What I mean is forever. Whether you go on to look elsewhere, or if you turn your back on us, or if we fall apart, or never love again, there will always be a quiet place in my heart that is yours.” 

***

Lancelot’s breath caught in his throat.

He had needed to ask. But the answer was not what he had expected.

He was ready to have his heart broken. Just as when he had asked the question to father. He knew that he was not a thing to be loved, but a thing to be used.

But the way Gawain looked at him now, it was completely foreign to him. It was vulnerable and bare. It made his stomach tighten and his heart seize in something he could only associate to panic. He wasn’t quite sure what the answer meant exactly, but one thing was certain: it wasn’t a lie.

It sealed a thought in Lancelot’s very being - he would die for this man. Whatever came their way, he would repay his immense debt to the Fey by being useful to the knight. All he had - his knowledge, his skill, his body - it was Gawain’s.

In the crux of his mind, the voices of father and the fey queen repeating what had always been his to bear: “Your life is not your own”.

No, it was Gawain’s.


	9. Fragile

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gawain liked to think he paid attention. And he did, for the most part. But that attention was so in demand, so spread out across all matters in the camp, it was too thin to be spared on much anything else.  
> So, when it comes to Lancelot, everything creeps in on him, despite his best efforts.  
> Not all of it is bad. But neither is it all good.  
> And he hates himself when he fails to see the bad.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: slightly NSFW

Gawain liked to think he paid attention. And he did, for the most part. But that attention was so in demand, so spread out across all matters in the camp, it was too thin to be spared on much anything else.

So, when it comes to Lancelot, everything creeps in on him, despite his best efforts.

Not all of it is bad. But neither is it all good.

And he hates himself when he fails to see the bad.

***

Lancelot takes care of him in the small ways he knows how. You would think that after spending so much time alone, caring for someone else would be as foreign to him as accepting the benign acts of kindness, but it was not. While taking was still a complete mystery to him, giving came as naturally as breathing.

Gawain absorbs himself completely in taking care of his people, often to his detriment - he forgets to eat, he forgets to sleep, he forgets to do the small actions that will allow him to keep going.

The Ashman never takes credit for it, but he keeps a quiet eye on him.

Warm food is waiting on his work desk at the end of long patrols. On days when he can’t even sit without his head lulling to one side or the other, Lancelot drags him to bed and fends off anyone who would disturb his sleep. Sometimes, he’ll even find himself in bed when he has no recollection of falling asleep. On cold nights, he sometimes wakes up to find that someone has thrown an extra pelt over him, aware that he gets cold easily. And he holds him whenever Gawain wakes up from another awful nightmare or when his waking mind sometimes teeters into dark places.

What he learns about Lancelot is this: his love is a fragile thing. 

It is a waiting thing: an unassuming, undemanding thing, not given but offered, held between hands that have been broken in so many places. There’s a softness to it, a fragility, as though it would crumble and disintegrate if it was pressed too hard. But it isn’t weakness, as Gawain had first thought. It’s uncertainty. Like his love is this vase that’s been smashed and put together again so many times, he doesn’t trust it to hold anything anymore. And still he offers, his arms extended, saying:  _ take it, it's yours, if you so choose _ .

It makes Gawain’s heart ache, he wants to tell him:  _ I choose you. All of you. And I'll keep choosing you over and over again for the rest of my life.  _ And he extends his own hands begging him to take everything, and to have, and to hold all of himself.

Lancelot’s love hesitates at taking. He has spent too long offering - offering to a father who never loved him and to a God who never answered - he does not even remember how to receive. He gathers shards and fragments of Gawain, holding them like the brittle wings of insects, terrified that he may lose them. 

But Gawain knows about patience. He knows about waiting and about persistence without insistence, and about being present. He is steadfast like the sun. He has watched and learned about reaching out his own hand, waiting for someone to gather up the courage to reach and take.

But then, there are also all the things he does not have the time to notice.

***

The nights are too few when Lancelot doesn’t come back to their tent with another bruise under his skin.

Sometimes, they are old stains, already turning to dark-ringed green and off-yellow; mostly, they’re fresh, red and purple and black. Sparring bruises on his forearms and his flanks. Sometimes, a black eye. Once, a broken finger, that he had failed to mention until Gawain discovered it.

Gawain  _ hates _ that it takes him such a long time to notice the subtle changes in Lancelot’s breath when he grabs too hard at somewhere that’s already tender;  _ hates _ when he catches the way Lancelot’s hands sometimes hover over places Gawain remembers as mottled and dark, or over deeply etched lines that will never fade away, like he is launched in a far away corner of his mind that needs to remind him of it - the pain, or what brought it on.

But Gawain never asks. Isn’t sure how to. Or maybe he is a coward when it comes to this - the fear of the knowledge that they aren’t only sparring bruises or a map to his past, but proof of more recent abuse.

It’s no less an accident when, after a disagreement, Gawain forgets the jagged, bandaged tear under Lancelot’s sleeve until his hand closes on it and Lancelot freezes, inhaling sharply.

Gawain backs up instantly, hands out - but though half of Lancelot’s expression is an expected wariness, his jaw is too loose for violence, and his eyes much, much too dark for fear. It’s shuttered now, but there was something fleeting in that look that Gawain recognises. It doesn’t take long for him to remember where from.

_ Dawn, everything quiet in the camp. Rough hands and even rougher breathing. Skin. Oil. All over much too fast. _

Lancelot says nothing, and so Gawain says nothing - when he really, really should have - and the argument is inevitably set aside for later.

Later becomes deep afternoon becomes a purple-tinged evening, until Gawain knows it will have to wait until the morning as the Ashman has made himself scarce.

It’s as he is absentmindedly tidying his desk that the hot and callused hands of Lancelot snake their way silently around his hips, his head coming to rest on the back of his shoulder. Neither is unwelcome, if not a little surprising - Lancelot is not a cuddler, although he indulges Gawain when it is required. He bends his neck into the damp warmth of Lancelot’s breath, let’s himself be turned, and darts in to steal a brush of a kiss before he is led to sit on his bed.

Leaning back on his hands, Gawain lets himself be watched. Lancelot’s face is gold in the light, angled and distinct like a painting in broad strokes; his eyes are gleaming like a storm. He closes in, decisive, and straddles Gawain’s lap, sliding his arms around Gawain’s neck.

Something in Gawain startles, one of the rare things he has been able to pick up from Lancelot: he knows the ashman dislikes sitting like this - his back to the rest of the tent, shoulders too wide and high for Gawain to be his eyes. Gawain’s blood pulses hot through him, breaths deepening with his heartbeat as Lancelot leans close, but the circle of his arms and the press of his lips to the corner of his mouth tastes less of genuine interest than of a need for absolution.

“I want to talk about this morning,” Gawain drops, placing his hands on his back to make sure he doesn’t go anywhere.

And Lancelot goes stiff, sharp with discomfort, like he just remembered how little he enjoys being perched like this: exposed, and blocking Gawain’s line of sight.

“No?” he tries, voice on edge.

But Gawain needs to, “Your arm -”

Lancelot tries to yank out in one brutal motion and Gawain’s hands tighten on reflex, fingers digging in and even through the layers of clothing the ashman wears he thinks he can feel the unnatural dip of fresh gashes -

But instead of hissing and wrenching away, Lancelot grunts, low and obscene, and his hips jerk in Gawain’s lap. It’s the same exact sound he makes when he breaches the knight. 

Lancelot screws his eyes shut, shame flashing slow and plain on his face. For a second there is only the sound of his breathing, as he tries to regain control over it. Gawain carefully moves his hands against his back, studying his lover’s face.

“Lancelot… what did you do?”

“Corrected myself, but apparently not well enough,” he said without hesitation under his breath.

“Excuse me,” he continued and tried to rise and leave. But Gawain wasn’t about to let this happen again.

“Oh no you don’t,” Gawain says, and when Lancelot recoils, he shifts his grip to his hips to keep him there. He doesn’t fight much; locks his shoulders like he might rear then relents, knees digging into the side of Gawain’s legs to try and make himself more comfortable.

“You corrected yourself?”

Lancelot swallowed thickly, uncertain where this was going.

“Yes. This morning, I - I wished for something that was not in my purview to ask.”

“Show me.”

Lancelot looked on at him with an edge.

“That is unnecessary.”

“I will not ask again.”

Lancelot set his jaw and reluctantly began stripping layers off until he was down to his undershirt. Gawain gets the pot of water he had set to boil earlier for tea and which is still warm. He gets a rag and a bowl, and sets everything on his table, ready for the worst.

The back of Lancelot’s shirt is covered in blood. It makes bile rise up his throat. This is why he had been gone all day. And Gawain hadn’t been paying attention. If he had, he could probably have talked the ashman down.

He pulled himself together - now was not the time for ‘what-could-have-been’s.

He gently guided his ashman to sit on a bench and lifted the undershirt over his head. His back is a mess. Long, jagged, awful licks of a whip Gawain isn’t even sure how he obtained. More than that, there are freshly healed lines, which meant it wasn’t the first time his lover resorted to this behaviour.

He began cleaning them with a pained sigh. He should have predicted that this would be an issue.

"I'm fine. This is wholly unnecessary."

"You're not fine and you're going to sit still until I am satisfied that you have been taken care of."

It makes Lancelot shrink on himself, but he doesn't move.

They are quiet for a long time, until the Ashman breaks the silence.

“I wanted you to hurt me,” he blurts out from within the confines of his hunch. “This morning, when you took my arm. I - I wanted you to dig into it. I wanted the pain.”

Despite the coarse cut of his tone, he didn’t try to pull away from Gawain’s hands, sitting rigid on the stool.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Gawain demanded.

“Because…” He caved a little further on himself. “Because it isn’t right. It would be like asking you to do what  _ they _ did to me… and you are  _ nothing _ like them.”

Gawain looked on at him with concern, searching for the right thing to say, sensing that this went further than the small snippets Lancelot had given him and what he had deduced of his time among the Red Paladins. His continued silence made the ashman shrink even further.

“I am - I am sorry, Gawain,” he continued carefully. “I didn't mean to burden you. I know it was wrong for me to even think about it. But what else can you expect from a monster?”

The last part was said more to himself than to the knight. It made him want to break down and cry. But now was not the time - Lancelot needed him and, gods only knew, he would never ask himself.

He circled him carefully and came to sit under his eye level.

“You -” he began, “- have nothing to be sorry about.”

Lancelot kept his gaze cast down. Gawain took a deep breath

“Did you know that I have been teaching myself Latin? Merlin lent me a few books”

He frowned curiously. “Why?”

“Because… because I want to read that book you care so much about. And I want to understand it. But that is beside the point…”

He collected his thoughts before continuing. “I know that you think you’re a monster. I don’t think you are, but… well, did you know the word monster comes from Latin?  _ Monstrum _ .”

Lancelot nodded, his frown deepening, not seeing where this was going.

“I’m still not very good with all the declensions, but…  _ Monstrum _ means an omen of misfortune. It’s not usually a being, but a message. And, in some way, I believe that the message has been etched into you your entire life - a warning of what the paladins are capable of.”

He felt Lancelot’s intense eyes on him.

“It makes you a bit of a lighthouse: shelter - protection - and warning all at once. A monster isn’t such a terrible thing. Not if it’s you.”

He dared a tender look in his direction. His lover was looking at him like he was the sun. It made Gawain more bold, taking his hands in his own and bringing his face mere inches from his.

“And if you would like a bit of pain from me,” he said low in his ear, “you have but to ask.”

It made Lancelot’s breath hitch.

“Just know that I will never do so to cause you distress - only pleasure - and that I will always take care of you afterwards...”

He couldn’t finish his sentence before Lancelot’s mouth crashed unto his. The ashman gathered him up to sit on his lap. He parted from him just enough to give him that searching look, his nostrils flaring - another thing Gawain had learned; a habit he had when trying to determine if he was being lied to. But Gawain was genuine, as always.

The knight gave him his own once over, inspecting the angry welts kissing his shoulders.

“One more thing. Do not touch yourself with the intention to harm,” he did his best to maintain the doors closed on the flood that threatened to spill out of him, only with minimal success. “If not for your sake, then for mine. I cannot bear to see you hurt.”

A few tears trailed their way down his face, which were immediately wiped by the ashman.

He leaned in to kiss him even more thoroughly.

“You are too good to me,” he said in his mouth.

“And you to me, even if you don’t see it.”

Gawain grabbed his arm in a swift motion, pressing into the cut exactly as he had that morning. Lancelot let out a low growl before picking him up - a feat of strength that left Gawain weak every single time - and dragging him to bed.

No sleep would be had that night. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The whole 'monster' part was inspired by Ocean Vuong's "A Letter To My Mother That She Will Never Read", which can be found in The New Yorker.


	10. Tie Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Basically, Gawain assumes that Lancelot likes it rough, when he really, really doesn't.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reversal of roles I have already established. So for this one I have: Top!Gawain and Bottom!Lancelot.
> 
> WARNING: smut; allusions to past rape; small flashbacks; issues with consent and guilt; lack of insight from Gawain; mismanagement of limits by Lancelot leading into sensory overload.
> 
> I'm sorry (?)

“Let me take care of you,” Gawain tells him, “I want to know how many scars you have and memorize the shape of your mouth. I want to climb the curve of your lower back and count the valleys and hills of your spine, of your ribs, your fingers, every goosebump on your skin; I want to map you out. I want you, all of you.”

It tugged at Lancelot’s lips - the knight always went on and on when he was feeling romantic. He just isn’t sure why the skyman directs all these beautiful words towards him when he could have anyone.

Lust, he can understand. Gawain is not the first man he has laid with, although he may be the first one with whom he has done so by choice. But he indulges Gawain and his honey soaked words - he can do what he wants with him, he owes him that much. What the knight is asking of him now, they have not done yet, but it has been done to him many times. He is resigned to it.

If Gawain wants to pin him down, make him go still, use him until he comes undone, then that is what he shall have.

He thinks in a flash of the torturer applying pain in precise increments and he is doused cold, unable to think of anything and forces himself to recite the name of all the saints he knows, until the cold leeches out, until he stops thinking  _ not there, focus on what is before you _ .

“Tie me,” he tells him in a whisper. There are less chances of him fighting back this way.

Something dark unfurls in the knight’s eyes. He rises and retrieves the rope he has stashed at the bottom of his trunk; he grips it hard enough for the fiber to mark his hand in the time it takes to return, and Lancelot, having divested himself of his shirt, watches him, as unreadable as ever. He turns, sharp offering his arms held hand to elbow.

The rope winds from one wrist to the other, secure. Gawain makes sure to leave it a little loose, enough it won’t cut off the blood circulation in his hands. He sits back a moment admiring his work: the way Lancelot’s fingers have hooked in tense expectation, the elegant muscled line of his shoulders pulled back, the crease between his shoulder blades and the arch of his chest from the tension. Lancelot shifts on the sheets, either nervousness or impatience slipping out.

He feels Gawain press against him, depositing a kiss on the nap of his neck, making him shiver.

“Will you let me try something?” Gawain asks, pouring oil into his palm. The tent is quiet around them, around the words the knight pours in his ear, made small and gentle like they’re something valuable instead of a distraction.

“Anything,” Lancelot answers, and watches him spread the oil to his fingers until they gleam in the lamplight.

A nudge to the insides of his knees: Gawain, shifting closer, coaxing him up to sit on his legs with a hand at the back of his thigh. Lancelot lets him - he’s been half-hard for a while now, Gawain makes him lose any control he might have otherwise - and the knight winds fingers through his hair and pulls with a look in his eyes like it’s meant to be a reward, and he has to clamp down the curl of fear that shoots up him; has to school the confusing clench of arousal in his stomach. The pain is a normal part of the process.

“I want to fuck you,” Gawain says, which is fine news, since that’s what they set out to do, “but only after you come.”

He rarely does in the presence of another; was strictly forbidden to in fact. It startles something in him that Gawain would want him to.

His hand closes slick on Lancelot’s cock and strokes, slow but tight, making his breaths go shallow for a moment and his hips sway into the pressure, the pull on his hair stinging in waves as he moves without bothering to keep steady.

“Why?” He dares.

“Because you’re so beautiful when you come undone, and it is too rare a treat.”

The hand between Lancelot’s legs has migrated further back - he rocks his hips, cock slipping wetly against Gawain’s forearm - and is carefully exploring the crack of his ass.

His back itches. Right there, between his shoulder blades. It’s a familiar sensation - he’s too exposed, here, sitting up in Gawain’s lap like a pet, being  _ watched _ , the eyes on him stinging worse than his hair getting pulled. When a finger pushes into him, he tenses, a sound escaping the safeness of his torso.

Gawain’s eyes flicker up to him. “Good?”

Lancelot nods, despite the small voice at the back of his head that says otherwise. As if to prove it the opposite, he rocks himself pointedly down onto Gawain’s hand with a held-back breath at how the movement makes him tighten. Another finger slides into him, stretching, slick - oh so slow - but Gawain’s folded legs under him keep him from taking more and the itch at his back is growing into an ache he can no longer ignore. He grits his teeth. If it were anyone else, he wouldn’t say anything, but maybe Gawain will grant him this small mercy.

“Can I turn around?”

Gawain’s fingers stop. “Turn-?”

“Yes,” he answers simply, flexing his arms, the feel of the ropes digging in grounding him. Gawain observes him, silent - then he pulls his fingers out and lets go of his hair to help him get settled with his back to him, legs spread around the knight’s, the fabric of his shirt brushing his fingertips. They’re not quite touching, except where he sits on top of Gawain’s thighs.

He can’t see himself being watched. Makes it easier to breathe when the fingers curve back into him, shallow and nudging; easier to clench so it burns a little as they twist in.

It’s awkward , holding himself straight while the fingers reach deep enough that his stomach and thighs strain and tremble - it would be easier if he was flat against the mattress…  _ rough hands on his neck, on his back, his hips keeping him pinned as he writhes _ . No. Not there, he tells his errant mind.

The fingers draw out, then thrust in, three now, fast and stinging, and he doesn’t manage to entirely cut off the groan they shock out of him, or the low gasp that follows when they crook and heat shoots through him, winding warm in his gut - his body doing its awkward dance between pleasure and going into fight or flight response. Gawain’s arm locks around his waist and drags him in close and he startles, eyes opening to the ceiling - he doesn’t remember when they closed, doesn’t remember arching back - and he twists on himself, but Gawain holds him tighter, his bound arms stuck between them, and he snarls and the fingers curl again, focused and merciless, until any sound he tries to make comes as a strangled whine, and Gawain’s arm unwinds enough to reach down for his cock and bucks into it with a savage, biting need - 

And every muscle in him locks up when Gawain’s fist closes tight around the base of him, finger pulling out to pin Lancelot’s hips in his lap. He squirms, hisses when the knight starts nipping the rise of his shoulder.

It takes him a second to regain control of his breathing. “Thought you wanted me to come,” he practically snarls out, trapped hands fisted in Gawain’s shirt.

“I want to have you after you do,” Gawain retorts, he can hear the smile in his voice, fist sliding tight up Lancelot’s cock to make him jerk then down to pull him close again. “Didn’t say anything about when that would be.”

Bastard, Lancelot thinks. He doesn’t like games, especially not this kind.

The hand on his cock is barely teasing, pressure too light, edging on uncomfortable; it strokes him a couple of times when he shifts in place and works his arms in the ropes until they burn with the effort, and then it goes back to slippery surface touches, not enough. He wants the knight to take him already; to use him and then be done with him.

He twists his wrists, tests how far he can move them. It might strain them a little, but if he angles them so, maybe he can anger him into taking him.

His fingers dig hard through Gawain’s shirt, cloth too thin to keep his nails from biting in, and Gawain swears and shoves him lurching forward by the back of his neck but doesn’t let him fall to the bed, grabs a hold of his hair instead, yanking to arch his neck back then crowding in close, hard cock pressed against Lancelot’s ass.

“Easy, angel,” Gawain breathes into the underside of his jaw.

The damp of his breath tickles; Lancelot tries to turn his face away but can’t, and he doesn’t know which is stronger: his growing dread, or the hot surge in his belly when Gawain uses  _ that word _ to designate him.

He wishes he would just drift, that his head would just white out so thoroughly he wouldn’t quite ever know what was going on until it’s over; until awareness rolls back in like a heavy fog, when he would have to sit nursing his body and his shame.

But he’ll take it - he’ll take anything, take whatever is coming for him and whatever he can bear. He bites his lip bloody.

There are fingers toying at his hole again, rubbing back and forth while his heartbeat picks up again. He can still feel the press of Gawain’s cock on his backside. If Gawain would only fuck him, he thinks again, then at least he might not pay so much attention to him.

He doesn’t like being this present in his own head, this aware and unable to focus right, the lights too bright and the breeze too much and what pain he can find to distract himself colder than usual. Gawain’s chin tucks into the crook of his neck, mass of hair scratchy against his cheek, and when his free hand reaches down to wrap around Lancelot’s dick again, he can’t tell if he wants to drive himself into the pressure or duck away from it.

Whatever he might choose, there’s no escape: Gawain’s fingers push into him and he doesn’t resist, the slide of them slick and gradual, somehow overwhelming anyway, and the palm that strokes him is rough and quick and his entire body feels raw from the touch of it. He measures his breathing, let’s the back of his head rest on the thick rise of Gawain’s shoulder. He can do this. He can take it. He’s taken so much more before.

Gawain’s hands still, the one on his cock going flat, cupping it against his stomach. “Lancelot?”

He means to snap and only manages a small noise when his stupid, needful body tries to bear down on the fingers inside of him and rock up into the hand on his belly all at once because… because it feels so  _ good _ , clenching on Gawain’s long, blunt fingers and pushing his cock against them, it feels good but the good in it is all wrong. All he can manage is an impatient: “get on with it, knight.”

Gawain huffs in his ear and obliges, his every touch precise, drawing the torture out like a root from the earth.

It’s distressingly perfect - that precision, that control brought to bear - it could crush him so thoroughly - but he feels honed rather than reduced, honed fine, a brittle razor’s edge, worn sharp enough to go see-through, sharper at every stroke as he arches and his thighs shake and his throat demands air -

It chokes him, leaves him straining, arms and shoulders burning as he fights for something to claw into, anything, an anchor, and he gasps out a noise and writhes for just another moment.

When Gawain’s fingers nudge that place that makes him buck again, he can’t help a hoarse “ _ No!”,  _ legs kicking and rucking up the sheets in wild anguish and he  _ can’t  _ and he would rather lash his entire back raw and “Stop _ touching me,” _ , and he is surprised when his wish is granted and then his face hits the bed, trying to wheeze air into his lungs through blankets and pelts, rolling unto himself, feet finding the edge of the mattress and dragging himself off to crouch, hard turned earth under him, caught hands against the mast holding the tent aloft.

Gawain is sliding off the bed, too close, and Lancelot does his best not to bare his teeth because he’s not a cornered animal anymore, but instead of anything useful his mouth opens to say, “Don’t come any closer.”

Gawain stops and takes a slow step back, which puts him at a more acceptable distance. He raises his hands in a soothing gesture before saying, “I’m not going to - “ and Lancelot cuts him off.

“Don’t.” He doesn’t need the reassurance, he knows Gawain is not like the men that came before, he proves it time and time again, and he has once again. Lancelot just needs two goddamn minutes while he gets a hold of himself - and stops cowering against the mast like a child. He steadies himself and rises to his knees. He’s much, much too naked to his liking.

Something in his head is still off-balance. Like there’s an insect caught right between his ears, whining strident in the background. He can smell his own sweat: sharp, unpleasant. The candle light is drilling pain into his eyeballs.

“I’m sorry,” Gawain offers, and the words don’t make any sense to Lancelot so he discards them, scanning the tent for something sharp to get himself out of the ropes. “Lancelot - ”

“I need a knife,” he mutters, giving the space another glance, but he knows he won’t be given anything sharp, even if it’s around - he hasn’t earned the right to an actual blade yet.

Gawain looks at him uncomfortably. “I can untie you.”

“Don’t - touch me,” he says, just as a precaution, eyes narrowing as he watches for movement, but Gawain doesn’t come any closer. It did seem like the easiest solution, easier and quicker than dislocating both his shoulders and twisting out of the bindings. “How fast can you do it?”

Gawain shifts on his feet, Lancelot keeps track, but it looks more like a nervous response than a tell anticipating movement. “Two minutes.”

Lancelot sighs, “Untie me.”

Even once Gawain is within range to work on the ropes, Lancelot doesn’t turn his back on him fully - keeps at an angle instead, arms pulled as far out of alignment as they can go so he can keep an eye on his progress. The knight is as quick as he promised, though Lancelot has to be careful to smooth out his own twitching at the pressure of hands through the ropes, or the tugging when Gawain undoes a loop, and as soon as he’s loose Lancelot shakes the rope off and twists back to face him, still on the ground. Gawain steps away again like he’s giving him space.

He slowly gets to his feet and gathers his things, never leaving the skyman with the corner of his eyes. 

“Lancelot - “ Gawain tries. He puts on his shirt, it feels wrong on its shoulders. Behind him, Gawain takes a step forward and he stiffens, back straight, listening.

Lancelot.” He’s stilled again, so Lancelot pulls his boots on. “Did I hurt you? If I did, I need to know. Let me make it right.”

Lancelot gives him one last look. This fey truly is too good for him. He, on the other hand, couldn't even give him this one thing.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers.

And then he leaves, the night air cool on his skin.


	11. Above all, not to be afraid of your scars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Merlin steps in to fix the mess Gawain and Lancelot have made of each other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One of my headcanons is that Merlin can’t remember anyone’s name… ever. Either willfully or accidentally.
> 
> I also couldn't resist in adding an altercation between Pym and Merlin. It's purely indulgent.
> 
> Enjoy!
> 
> WARNING: discussion of past sexual abuse in a somewhat oblique way

Lancelot doesn't quite make it back to his tent before breaking down. The tears just keep coming down his face, the feeling of them grounding him just as much as his nails digging into the dirt. He's thankful the camp is mostly asleep and that there is no one to see him in this moment of weakness.

He just needs a minute. And then another. And then another. 

He finds it harder and harder to pace his breathing, to keep the ball that has formed in his throat from choking him, and his mind not to drag itself into places where he won't be able to retrieve it.

A presence makes itself known, making more noise than strictly necessary, and messily crouching before him.

Lancelot doesn't have to look up to know it's the sorcerer: the smell of beer and of coppery magic sorely unmistakable on his skin.

Merlin inspects him for a quiet minute. "Oh ashling… did you bite off more than you could chew?"

It's not a taunt. On the contrary, it is filled with sorrow and pity. Everything is a haze at the moment, but that slither of pity… it’s awful. “Don’t look at me like that,” he hisses.

It makes him feel small. Father had always had a similar look in his eye before cleansing him of his sins. The memory makes him bare his teeth.

“Stop it,” he spits around barely contained anger. There is that at least - he is tired of feeling vulnerable - anger is so much better, cold and clean. “ _ Do you hear me? _ Stop looking at me like that. I will break every bone in you with my blood stained hands.”

If the Weeping Monk had spoken these words, he would have had an immediate reaction, but Lancelot? Lancelot probably deserves the withering glance because he can’t even get a reaction from a useless drunkard. It makes him deflate, somehow feeling smaller than he had before.

After a moment, Merlin chuckles under his breath, unphased. “Oh, I’m sure you could. By the three Morrígna, what I wouldn’t give for you to succeed!” For a moment, his eyes fog over. He continues in a murmur, “And yet, come morning, I’ll be whole and still the scourge of the Fey.”

He seems to pull himself together, lazily drags his elbows on his knees and deposits his chin on his hands. “Believe me, ashling, nothing would delight me more than your attempting murder on my delicate self. But, I do believe that would be a waste of both of our time.”

With that, he gets to his feet - surprisingly fast for a man who smells so heavily of drink - and offers him a hand.

The Ashman hesitates before taking it. The Wizard helps him to his feet. “Come on, ashling. Let’s get you sorted.”

***

“It is a hard line to walk -” Merlin tells him quietly while he inspects the deep furrows the ropes have left in his arms from his struggling. “ - to be both victim and monster.”

Lancelot looks at him carefully as he busies. He can’t make his character out and it bothers him. He is usually a quick study, but something about Merlin is slippery.

“Gawain says that being a monster isn’t such a terrible thing.”

The sorcerer glanced up. “Does he now? Well, the knight might not be as thick as he looks.”

Lancelot furrows his brow at him. The insult made something possessive lurch in his chest. “Gawain is not thick.”

“Oh but he is... and in all the right places as I’m sure you well know,” he says pointing at the love bites speckling his neck and a wink.

The Ashman blushes furiously. The other man simply laughs and continues his work.

There is a long moment of silence before Lancelot grits his teeth and dares to speak what is on his mind. Something Gawain has been reinforcing in him.

“I don't understand why he is so good to me. I bring nothing to him. I couldn't even go through with a simple request -” 

By the time he finishes, his voice is hardly audible.

Merlin sighs for the umpteenth time that past hour and goes to retrieve the tea tray: it’s going to be a long night.

“Not all love is servitude, child of ash.”

The other man still watches his every move. Merlin notes to himself that, despite his calm exterior, the man is in a constant state of hypervigilance. An exhausting prospect.

"Have you talked to him? About your life before?"

Lancelot shakes his head.

"Why not?"

"It is none of his concern."

"Has he not asked?"

"He has… he has a lot of questions."

"Why wouldn't you tell him what he wants to know?"

His probing makes the Ashman nervous. Nervous is good, it makes him feel vulnerable and he is prone to anger to smother it. And anger, in Merlin’s experience, always comes with flashes of clarity. The sorcerer has decided to help, but he has no intention of being delicate about it.

"He wouldn't like it."

"Why not?"

His nostrils flare but he remains silent.

"Why not, child of ash?" He insists in his most petulant tone.

"Because -" he explodes. The sorcerer was happy the other man didn't have anything hot in his hands to throw at him yet. "- he doesn't believe I'm a monster, but I have the facts to prove it."

They both still, Merlin gives him an eventual full teeth shit-eating grin. He realises he is now standing up at his full height and hovering menacingly over the other man. He takes a deep breath, rolls his shoulders back, tucking the rage where once it came and slumps back into his chair. God he hates how the sorcerer can get under his skin so easily.

Merlin stuffs a small clay mug between his hands. "Camomile, for the nerves."

He gives it a few sniffs and reluctantly takes a sip, making a face - he despises tea.

"I think you're right," offers Merlin after a while, "he won't like what he hears from you, but not for the reason you think."

The Ashman peers at him carefully. He knows the truth of his own words. Yet, he also knows the sorcerer to be a powerful man of great knowledge. Even among the Red Paladins, the legends surrounding Merlin were well known.

"The problem with pain, child of ash," he continues, "is that I cannot feel yours, and you cannot feel mine. In some ways, that is also what makes it so lenient."

Lancelot is at least as smart as the next fellow, but the sorcerer seems only to talk in mazes. The confusion is fairly plain on his features.

"What I'm saying is, the knight hurt you tonight but he doesn't know how or why."

"He did not hurt me"

“No? Then why are you falling apart?” 

The ashman falls silent. There are questions better left unanswered.

Merlin huffs. He had hoped it would be easy, but that had been rather foolish of him. He slumps back into his chair, nursing his cup on the flat between his chest and his stomach. It was story time.

“Nimue’s mother was Skyfolk. Did you know that?”

Lancelot nods.

“Lenore. When I stumbled into her life, she was not yet the high-priestess of her clan, but it was only a matter of time, she had the bearings of one. Not only that, but she was also kind, loyal, and one of the bravest souls I have ever met.”

A bewilderment of fondness and sadness make their way all at once across his features.

“Sometimes, I look at her daughter -  _ our  _ daughter - and I see so much of her...”

The sorcerer shakes himself from his reverie and bends forward, inching in his chair until their knees are almost touching.

“The point is, ashling, Skyfolk are a bit crazy,” that is not the conclusion Lancelot had expected. “They take abominations such as us and make the poor choice of loving them, no matter the consequences.”

Lancelot keeps his head down, desperately trying to tame the small tremble that has taken over his limbs again. 

Love. He’s told the knight he would learn what it was. But all he knows are devotion and duty. What is in his heart doesn’t matter as long as he can be of service. 

Yet, he had asked Gawain that time if he loved him. For as long as he can remember, he has longed for the feeling. Longing, he thinks, what a soft word for such a voracious feeling - how he had hungered for it. And now that it is offered to him with open hands, he finds that he cannot accept it.

“The difference between you and me -” the sorcerer continues, “ - is I believe you’re actually worthy of it. And I think the knight sees it too.”

When the sorcerer’s blue gaze bores into you, there is nowhere to hide.

“I will repeat to you what I said earlier: not all love is servitude. It is what you have been taught, but not what you deserve.”

Lancelot broke again, a small sob escaping him, which he immediately muffles with a hand. This just kept happening… he hadn’t cried this much since he was a child. All his life, showing any emotion had been a dangerous game. But right now, all he can feel is relief. More so when the sorcerer pulls him in and lets him cry in the valley of his shoulder for what seems like an eternity. It feels surprisingly safe, narrowing his world to the folds of Merlin’s coat and the slow easing of the tension that has been building for much, much too long.

When he has finally recovered a little and his breath comes in more evenly, it occurs to him that Merlin is probably the only person in camp who has any idea of what he is going through. Not only because he has lived several lifetimes, but because they are guilty of much the same atrocities.

"Does it ever become easier?" He asks between hiccups.

Merlin thinks for a second.

"I'll let you know."

***

"What game are you playing at, trickster?"

Merlin fanned his fingers against the sun to get a better look at the woman interrupting his morning.

Pym stood with all the height she could muster, her arms folded against her chest and her face schooled into her very best scowl.

"You'll have to be more specific than that, my dear," he answered nonchalantly, “I enjoy playing many games all at once.” 

He closed his eyes once again and made himself more comfortable against the tree where he had elected to meditate.

He could practically feel her narrowing her eyes at him.

“Lancelot, you prick! What did you do to Lancelot? I saw him exiting your tent last night!”

He didn’t like the edge of accusation in her voice. He really wasn’t as bad as all the stories made him up to be.

“It may surprise you, but I was actually attempting to help him.”

He cracked an eye open, she didn’t look convinced.

“If you do not believe me, go ask him and leave me be.”

Pym made an exasperated noise. “I have, but he won't tell me! And both he and Gawain look awful this morning! I have to assume something is terribly wrong.”

Merlin hummed. “And you thought you could get information out of me? Who's playing games now, girl?”

This broke her resolve a little. She was obviously just trying to help. The sorcerer has the fleeting feeling that he is grateful his daughter had such a person in her life, despite her nosiness.

He got up and put a hand on her shoulder. “Look. You are not wrong to be worried. But this is between them. I believe they are strong enough to make it right. You’ll just have to trust me when I tell you they will make it.”

She searched his face for a bit and then nodded.

“I still think you’re a prick.”

The sorcerer smiled and said, “And you’re a redhead,” before walking away.

Pym made a face. “What’s that supposed to mean?” she yelled after him. “Merlin?!”

***

The next few days are hard. They leave Gawain thinking that he’d rather have the sky fall upon him than to have to deal with the guilt that gnaws at the edges of his mind.

Mostly, he ties his stomach into knots for his lack of insight - he remembers almost everything Lancelot had said when he had been half-delirious on their way to the fey camp, and most of it had been incredibly disturbing. He had vowed to protect his bruised and shattered heart, and instead, he had done no better than any Red Paladin.

It was that thought - that blasted thought - that sent the guilt teetering into self-loathing.

He wants nothing more than to march into Lancelot’s tent and apologise, try to make things right by any means necessary. But he stops himself. What if he made it worse? 

While he had come to understand Lancelot much better in the last few months, he would never be able to understand him fully. He had thought that his intention to try would be enough. But even that was now a distant dream: Lancelot had come so far and he had torn that progress to shreds within an hour through his own sheer stupidity.

It breaks his heart even further when, even if the ashman has been avoiding him, his little gestures have not stopped - he still finds hot cups of tea and snacks on his desk after long shifts, a blanket on his shoulders when he has nodded off in his chair, and sometimes even small flowers on his pillow which make him tear up - all proofs that the ashman is still fond of him at the very least. 

It makes him feel like he does not deserve to be taken care of in these ways. Not after what he has done.

The thought does occur to him eventually that this may be how his ashman feels all the time - undeserving. Spirits know, the man had committed his fair share of foulness.

But if the ashman ever lets him near again, Gawain will make sure he knows how worthy he was in his eyes.

For now, better to leave the man alone. Let him decide when the time was right. Gawain wasn’t going anywhere.

***

It’s almost a month before Lancelot made himself known again. At first, it was like the waves of the ocean, he came and went. After a while, he stayed. It took even longer for them to be comfortable again with each other’s proximity.

But Gawain was patient and let things progress as fast or as slow as Lancelot wished them to be. He was simply grateful for the chance to make things right and to have him near again.

He had missed him. Missed him like it was grief. And maybe it had been - grief for a piece of their relationship that would never be salvaged.

They didn’t talk about it. They kept it at arm’s length for a long time. Until one night - Lancelot pressed in his side, the last embers of the fire dying out, a blanket of snow covering everything outside their tent in a quiet embrace and a cloudless starry sky to gaze outside their door - when the ashman told him, “Ask me. I will answer this time.”

Gawain glanced down at him, finding those cerulean blue eyes - like a perfect day, he thought.

He took a few moments, turning in his head the millions of questions he’s asked before and the million others which had surfaced in their time apart.

“Are you sure?” He demanded carefully.

“I am. I’ve been practicing,” Gawain quirked an eyebrow. 

“Merlin’s been helping,” Lancelot supplied in a tone that suggested he believed he was being helpful.

Now, a new host of questions were emerging in Gawain’s mind. They would have to wait.

He inched a little closer, wanting to make sure to feel it in the ashman’s pulse and breathing if something went wrong - if he pushed too far.

“What happened that night a few moons ago?”

Lancelot thought for a little. “That question is too big. Can you break it into smaller ones?”

This answer made Gawain smile slightly. Lancelot rarely asked for anything, and when he did, he often bore a look on his face like he expected denial or - perhaps more disturbing - retaliation. But there was none of that now. Whatever Merlin had done, Spirits bless him.

“Alright, I will try. That night, did I hurt you?”

“Yes and no,” he answered delicately. “Mostly, it was my memories that hurt me. Sometimes, it’s like I can’t get out of them. Merlin says it can happen to people who have seen… too much”

It pained him to finally hear it. He had known, of course. But hearing it was another matter.

“I am so sorry, Lancelot,” he did his best not to let the tears well up in his eyes. This was neither the time nor the place.

The ashman took his hand and pressed a kiss on the flat of it. “I know that wasn’t your intention. You’re a good man.”

Gawain wasn’t so sure of that, but he would rather die all over again than divest the ashman of his good opinion of him.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” He asked next.

“I thought that is what you wanted from me.”

Gawain was confused. “Why would I ever want to hurt you like that?”

“Because that’s always how it has felt for me… Except for a few times… with you.”

He was playing with the edge of his cloak nervously and his eyes were darting everywhere except for Gawain’s face.

Blinding clarity suddenly flashed inside the knight’s head. He did not like what he saw.

“Lancelot, can I ask, what were the memories that hurt you?”

It took a while for his love to collect himself. When he finally did, he took a deep settling breath.

“When I was young,” he began, “Father caught me with one of the recruits…” 

There was a long pause. “I was already a demon in his eyes, but that truly made me an irretrievable wretch. He would make me ferret out sodomites within our ranks as penance…”

He kept his gaze lowered, shame plain in his body language. “I - it was not by my choice. I -”

Gawain made a gesture for him to stop. It had occurred to Gawain that the man was strangely experienced for a person who had grown up among people who preached abstinence. Never in a million years would he have thought his experience came from repeated assault. He had been a fool. Of course, the Paladin’s were even more depraved than what his imagination could summon up. Gawain was not violent by nature, but Hidden, if Carden hadn’t already been dead, he would have made it slow and terrible. He had half a mind to ask Nimue to resurrect him.

“You can tell me if you want to, but I understand what you are implying. You don’t have to say any more,” he said low and soothing. “I just need you to know that what they did was wrong and that I never want that for us - to use you. It breaks my heart to even think that is what happened…”

“I’m sorry, Gawain. I-”

“No. Do not apologise for something that was so totally out of your control. Now, I know. And we will make sure it never happens again.”

Lancelot gave a tiny sigh of relief and burrowed his face in the knight's shoulder.

Moments where he let his guard down like this were far too few and far in between. It made Gawain want to engulf him and never let anything ever touch him again.

He kissed the top of his head and rested his cheek there.

“Can I ask you more questions?”

He felt his head motion in the affirmative.

“How old were you when you were taken?”

“About five,” came the muffled answer.

Gawain mulled that number over in his mind, tried to remember what it was like when he himself was five. All he could remember was the smell of fresh bread, the great billowing of his father’s laugh, and a dog, perhaps.

“It must have been very lonely. A single ashen child among Red Paladins.”

Lancelot rose his head, his eyebrows furrowed, confusion creasing his forehead. “I wasn’t alone. The Paladins took many children from my village. I’m just the only one who made it this far.”

The sheer horror of his words seemed to escape him.

“What?” He asked when Gawain failed to comment. “Did you think they would have taken a single child to try and raise it into a faithful soldier? What would be the point of that? I don’t know if you’ve noticed but children die rather easily.”

Gawain shook the shock out of his system. Every time he thought he had learned the darkest part of Lancelot’s past, something new came to replace it.

“Do you - want to talk about them?”

This seemed to startle him slightly. It was immediately replaced by mild panic. Gawain immediately reacted, encasing his face between his hands, trying to ground him.

“Hey, you’re alright. We don’t have to if you don’t want to.”

The slipping lucidity in Lancelot’s eyes seemed to regain control. “I forget their faces sometimes,” he dropped before pressing his face back into his cloak, inhaling deeply.

They were silent for a long time.

“Last question?” Gawain asked.

Lancelot sighed but made a small noise of approval.

“The few times you did enjoy yourself with me,” Gawain whispered in the hollow of his ear, “what did you like?”

Even in the dark, he could make out the change in hue of Lancelot’s skin.

Gawain had learned plenty that night. Things that he was grateful the ashman had shared with him, but things that nonetheless depicted a darker past than he could ever have imagined.

He could only hope against all hope that they would make it. Hope that they could find acceptance inside of each other’s arms that would quiet the voice that told them they weren’t enough. Hope that they could eventually forgive themselves for the mistakes they had made and for the past that they desperately clung to in an attempt to keep those they had lost alive. He could only hope that they could learn to let go of the things they had to do in order to survive.

Gawain promised himself again - he would kiss him like forgiveness and let him hold all of himself like he still had hope. He would love him in all his cracked perfection - even if some days he was like a hurricane.

Above all, he would not be afraid of his scars. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter might be set in Lancelot's childhood where we might meet the other Ashen children that were taken. Haven't quite decided yet.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!
> 
> Let me know what you think or if you've spotted gruesome trespasses against the English Language.
> 
> This is my first attempt at a longer fic. It may take me a while to update. I know where I want this to go, but am a bit foggy on the middle part...


End file.
